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i 



THE 
COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 



N I 




i 



THE COMPLETE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

EDITED 

raitfj Preface antj Woteg 
By WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI 



BOSTON: 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 

1903. 



V 






Copyright, 1887, 
By Roberts Brothers. 



Atithgr's -E^iidon. 



b'/^7^' * 



••• ••• .•• : •! ••• • 



^£) 



John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

Died 9 April, 1882, aged 53. 

FRANCES MARY LAVINIA ROSSETTI 
Died 8 April, 1886, aged 85. 



TO 

THE MOTHER'S SACRED MEMORY 

THIS FIRST COLLECTED EDITION OF 

THE SON'S POETICAL WORKS 

By the surviving SON AND BROTHER, 
W. M. R. 



PREFACE 
TO THE COLLECTED WORKS. 



THE most adequate mode of prefacing the Collected 
Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, as of most authors, 
would probably be to offer a broad general view of his writ- 
ings, and to analyze with some critical precision his rela- 
tion to other writers, contemporary or otherwise, and the 
merits and defects of his performances. In this case, as in 
how few others, one would also have to consider in what 
degree his mind worked consentaneously or diversely in two 
several arts, — the art of poetry and the art of painting. But 
the hand of a brother is not the fittest to undertake any 
work of this scope. My preface will not therefore deal with 
themes such as these, but will be confined to minor matters, 
which may nevertheless be relevant also within their limits. 
And first may come a very brief outline of the few events of 
an outwardly uneventful life.- 

Gabriel Charles Dante Rossetti, who at an early stage 
of his professional career modified his name into Dante 
Gabriel Rossetti, was born on the 12th May, 1828, at No. 38 
Charlotte Street, Portland Place, London. In blood he was 
three-fourths Italian, and only one-fourth English, — being 
on the father's side wholly Italian (Abruzzese), and on the 
mother's side half Italian (Tuscan) and half English. His 



Vlll 



PREFACE. 



father was Gabriele Rossetti, bom in 1783 at Vasto, in the 
Abruzzi, Adriatic coast, in the then kingdom of Naples. 
Gabriele Rossetti (died 1854) was a man of letters, a custo- 
dian of ancient bronzes in the Museo Borbonico of Naples, 
and a poet; he distinguished himself by patriotic lays which 
fostered the popular movement resulting in the grant of a 
constitution by Ferdinand I. of Naples in 1820. The King, 
after the fashion of Bourbons and tyrants, revoked the con- 
stitution in 1821, and persecuted the abettors of it, and 
Rossetti had to escape for his freedom, or perhaps even for 
his life. He settled in London towards 1824, married, and 
became Professor of Itahan in King's College, London, 
publishing also various works of bold speculation in the 
way of Dantesque commentary and exposition. His wife 
was Frances Mary Lavinia Polidori (died 1886), daughter of 
Gaetano Polidori (died 1853), a teacher of Italian and a lite- 
rary man, who had in early youth been secretary to the poet 
Alfieri, and who published various books, including a com- 
plete translation of Milton's poems. Frances Polidori was 
English on the side of her mother, whose maiden name was 
Pierce. The family of Rossetti and his wife consisted of 
four children, born in four successive years, — Maria Fran- 
cesca (died 1876), Dante Gabriel, WilHam Michael, and 
Christina Georgina, the two last-named being now the only 
survivors. Few more affectionate husbands and fathers 
have lived, and no better wife and mother, than Gabriele 
and Frances Rossetti. The means of the family were always 
strictly moderate, and became scanty towards 1843, when the 
father's health began to fail. In or about that year Dante 
Gabriel left King's College School, where he had learned 
Latin, French, and a beginning of Greek; and he entered 
upon the study of the art of painting, to which he had from 
earliest childhood exhibited a very marked bent. After a 



PREFACE, ix 

while he was admitted to the school of the Royal Academy, 
but never proceeded beyond its antique section. In 1848 
Rossetti co-operated with two of his fellow-students in paint- 
ing, — John Everett Millais and William Holman Hunt, — and 
with the sculptor Thomas Woolner, in forming the so-called 
Praeraphaelite Brotherhood. There were three other mem- 
bers of the Brotherhood, — James ColHnson (succeeded after 
two or three years by Walter Howell Deverell), Frederic 
George Stephens, and the present writer. Ford Madox 
Brown, the historical painter, was known to Rossetti much 
about the same time when the Praeraphaelite scheme was 
started, and bore an important part both in directing his 
studies and in upholding the movement, but he did not think 
fit to join the Brotherhood in any direct or complete sense. 
Through Deverell, Rossetti came to know Elizabeth Eleanor 
Siddal, daughter of a Sheffield cutler, herself a milliner's as- 
sistant, gifted with some artistic and some poetic faculty ; and 
in the spring of i860, after a long engagement, they married. 
Their wedded life was of short duration, as she died in Feb- 
ruary, 1862, having meanwhile given birth to a still-born 
child. For several years up to this date Rossetti, designing 
and painting many works, in oil-color or as yet more fre- 
quently in water-color, had resided at No. 14 Chatham Place, 
Blackfriars Bridge, a line of street now demolished. In the 
autumn of 1862 he removed to No. 16 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. 
At first certain apartments in the house were occupied by 
Mr. George Meredith the novelist, Mr. Swinburne the poet, 
and myself. This arrangement did not last long, although I 
myself remained a partial inmate of the house up to 1873. 
My brother continued domiciled in Cheyne Walk until his 
death; but from about 1869 he was frequently away at Kelm- 
scot manorhouse, in Oxfordshire, not far from Lechlade, 
occupied jointly by himself and by the poet Mr. William 



X PREFACE. 

Morris, with his family. From the autumn of 1872 till the 
summer of 1874 he was wholly settled at Kelmscot, scarcely 
visiting London at all. He then returned to London, and 
Kelmscot passed out of his ken. 

In the early months of 1850 the members of the Praera- 
phaelite Brotherhood, with the co-operation of some friends, 
brought out a short-lived magazine named The Germ (after- 
wards Art and Poetry) ; here appeared the first verses and 
the first prose published by Rossetti, including The Blessed 
Damozel and Hand and Soul. In 1856 he contributed a 
little to The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine^ printing there 
The Burden of Nmeveh. In 1861, during his married life, 
he published his volume of translations, The Early Italian 
Poets, now entitled Dante and his Circle. By the time there- 
fore of the death of his wife he had a certain restricted yet 
far from inconsiderable reputation as a poet, along with his 
recognized position as a painter, — a non-exhibiting painter, 
it may here be observed, for, after the first two or three 
years of his professional course, he adhered with practical 
uniformity to the plan of abstaining from exhibition alto- 
gether. He had contemplated bringing out in or about 1862 
a volume of original poems ; but in the grief and dismay 
which overwhelmed him in losing his wife, he determined to 
sacrifice to her memory this long-cherished project, and he 
buried in her coffin the manuscripts which would have fur- 
nished forth the volume. With the lapse of years he came 
to see that as a final settlement of the matter this was 
neither obligatory nor desirable ; so in 1869 the manuscripts 
were disinterred, and in 1870 his volume named Poems was 
issued. For some considerable while it was hailed with 
general and lofty praise, checkered by only moderate stric- 
ture or demur; but late in 1871 Mr. Robert Buchanan pub- 
lished under a pseudonym, in the Contemporary Review^ a 



PREFACE. xi 

very hostile article named The Fleshly School of Poetry^ at- 
tacking the poems on literary and more especially on moral 
grounds. The article, in an enlarged form, was afterwards 
reissued as a pamphlet. The assault produced on Rossetti 
an effect altogether disproportionate to its intrinsic impor- 
tance ; indeed, it developed in his character an excess of 
sensitiveness and of distempered brooding which his nearest 
relatives and friends had never before surmised, — for hith- 
erto he had on the whole had an ample sufficiency of high 
spirits, combined indeed with a certain underlying gloominess 
or abrupt moodiness of nature and outlook. Unfortunately 
there was in him already only too much of morbid material 
on which this venom of detraction was to work. For some 
years the state of his eyesight had given very grave cause 
for apprehension, he himself fancying from time to time that 
the evil might end in absolute blindness, — a fate with which 
our father had been formidably threatened in his closing 
years. From this or other causes insomnia had ensued, 
coped with by far too free a use of chloral, which may have 
begun towards the end of 1869. In the summer of 1872 he 
had a dangerous crisis of illness ; and from that time for- 
ward, but more especially from the middle of 1874, he be- 
came secluded in his habits of Hfe, and often depressed, 
fanciful, and gloomy. Not indeed that there were no inter- 
vals of serenity, even of brightness ; for in fact he was often 
genial and pleasant, and a most agreeable companion, with 
as much botihotnie as acuteness for wiling an evening away. 
He continued also to prosecute his pictorial work with ardor 
and diligence, and at times he added to his product as a 
poet. The second of his original volumes, Ballads and 
Sonnets, was published in the autumn of 1881. About the 
same time he sought change of air and scene in the vale of 
St. John, near Keswick, Cumberland; but he returned to 



xii PREFACE, 

town more shattered in health and in mental tone than he 
had ever been before. In December a shock of a quasi- 
paralytic character struck him down. He raUied sufficiently 
to remove to Birchington-on-Sea, near Margate. The hand 
of death was then upon him, and was to be relaxed no more. 
The last stage of his maladies was uraemia. Tended by his 
mother and his sister Christina, with the constant compan- 
ionship at Birchington of Mr. Hall Caine, and in the pres- 
ence likewise of Mr. Theodore Watts, Mr. Frederick Shields, 
and myself, he died on Easter Sunday, April 9, 1882. His 
sister-in-law, the daughter of Madox Brown, arrived imme- 
diately after his latest breath had been drawn. He lies 
buried in the churchyard of Birchington. 

Few brothers were more constantly together, or shared 
one another's feelings and thoughts more intimately, in 
childhood, boyhood, and well on into mature manhood, than 
Dante Gabriel and myself. I have no idea of limning his 
character here at any length, but will define a few of its 
leading traits. He was always and essentially of a dominant 
turn, — in intellect and in temperament a leader. He was 
impetuous and vehement, and necessarily therefore impa- 
tient ; easily angered, easily appeased, although the embit- 
tered feehngs of his later years obscured this amiable quality 
to some extent ; constant and helpful as a friend where he 
perceived constancy to be reciprocated ; free-handed and 
heedless of expenditure, whether for himself or for others ; 
in family affection warm and equable, and (except in relation 
to our mother, for whom he had a fondling love) not demon- 
strative. Never on stilts in matters of the intellect or of 
aspiration, but steeped in the sense of beauty, and loving, if 
not always practising, the good; keenly alive also (though 
many people seem to discredit this now) to the laughable as 
well as the grave or solemn side of things ; superstitious in 



PREFACE. xiii 

grain, and anti-scientific to the marrow. Throughout his 
youth and early manhood I considered him to be markedly 
free from vanity, though certainly well equipped in pride: 
the distinction between these two tendencies was less defi- 
nite in his closing years. Extremely natural and therefore 
totally unaffected in tone and manner, with the naturalism 
characteristic of Italian blood ; good-natured and hearty, 
without being complaisant or accommodating; reserved at 
times, yet not haughty; desultory enough in youth, diligent 
and persistent in maturity ; self-centred always, and brush- 
ing aside whatever traversed his purpose or his bent. He 
was very generally and very greatly liked by persons of ex- 
tremely diverse character ; indeed, I think it can be no exag- 
geration to say that no one ever disliked him. Of course I 
do not here confound the question of liking a man's person- 
ality with that of approving his conduct out-and-out. 

Of his manner I can perhaps convey but a vague im- 
pression. I have said that it was natural ; it was likewise 
eminently easy, and even of the free-and-easy kind : there 
was a certain British bluffness streaking the finely poised 
Italian suppleness and facility. As he was thoroughly uncon- 
ventional, caring not at all to fall in with the humors or pre- 
possessions of any particular class of society, or to conciliate 
or approximate the socially distinguished, there was little in 
him of any veneer or varnish of elegance. None the less he 
was courteous and well-bred, meeting all sorts of persons 
upon equal terms, — that is, upon his own terms ; and I am 
satisfied that those who are most exacting in such matters 
found in Rossetti nothing to derogate from the standard of 
their requirements. In habit of body he was indolent and 
lounging, disinclined to any prescribed or trying exertion of 
any sort, and very difiicult to stir out of his ordinary groove, 
yet not wanting in active promptitude whenever it suited his 



xiv PREFACE. 

liking. He often seemed totally unoccupied, especially of 
an evening ; no doubt the brain was busy enough. 

The appearance of my brother was to my eye rather Italian 
than English, though I have more than once heard it said 
that there was nothing observable to bespeak foreign blood. 
He was of rather low middle stature, say five feet seven and 
a half, like our father ; and, as the years advanced, he resem- 
bled our father not a Httle in a characteristic way, yet with 
highly obvious divergencies. Meagre in youth, he was at 
times decidedly fat in mature age. The complexion, clear 
and warm, was also dark, but not dusky or sombre. The 
hair was dark and somewhat silky ; the brow grandly spa- 
cious and solid; the full-sized eyes bluish-gray; the nose 
shapely, decided, and rather projecting, with an aquiline ten- 
dency and large nostrils, and perhaps no detail in the face 
was more noticeable at a first glance than the very strong 
indentation at the spring of the nose below the forehead ; the 
mouth moderately well-shaped, but with a rather thick and 
unmoulded under lip ; the chin unremarkable ; the line of 
the jaw, after youth was passed, full, rounded, and sweeping ; 
the ears well-formed and rather small than large. His hips 
were wide, his hands and feet small ; the hands very much 
those of the artist or author type, — white, delicate, plump, 
and soft as a woman's. His gait was resolute and rapid, his 
general aspect compact and determined, the prevailing ex- 
pression of the face that of a fiery and dictatorial mind con- 
centrated into repose. Some people regarded Rossetti as 
eminently handsome ; few, I think, would have refused him 
the epithet of well-looking. It rather surprises me to find 
from Mr. Caine's book of Recollections that that gentleman, 
when he first saw Rossetti in 1880, considered him to look 
full ten years older than he really was, — namely, to look as 
if sixty-two years old. To my own eye nothing of the sort 



PREFACE. XV 

«. 
was apparent. He wore moustaches from early youth, shav- 
ing his cheeks ; from 1870 or thereabout he grew whiskers 
and beard, moderately full and auburn-tinted, as well as 
moustaches. His voice was deep and harmonious, — in the 
reading of poetry remarkably rich, with rolling swell and 
musical cadence. 

My brother was very little of a traveller ; he disliked the 
interruption of his ordinary habits of life, and the flurry or 
discomfort involved in locomotion. In boyhood he knew 
Boulogne ; he was in Paris three or four times, and twice 
visited some principal cities of Belgium. This was the 
whole extent of his foreign travelling. He crossed the Scot- 
tish border more than once, and knew various parts of 
England pretty well : Hastings, Bath, Oxford, Matlock, 
Stratford-on-Avon, Newcastle-on-Tyne, Bognor, Heme 
Bay; Kelmscot, Keswick, and Birchington-on-Sea have been 
already mentioned. From 1878 or thereabout he became, 
until he went to the neighborhood of Keswick, an absolute 
home-keeping recluse, never even straying outside the large 
garden of his own house, except to visit from time to time 
our mother in the central part of London. 

From an early period of life he had a large circle of friends, 
and could always have commanded any amount of intercourse 
with any number of ardent or kindly well-wishers, had he 
but felt elasticity and cheerfulness of mind enough for the 
purpose. I should do injustice to my own feelings if I were 
not to mention here some of his leading friends. First and 
foremost I name Mr. Madox Brown, his chief intimate 
throughout life, on the unexhausted resources of whose affec- 
tion and converse he drew incessantly for long years ; they 
were at last separated by the removal of Mr. Brown to Man- 
chester, for the purpose of painting the Town Hall frescos. 
The Praeraphaelites, — Millais, Hunt, Woolner, Stephens, 



xvi PREFACE. 

Collinson, Deverell, — were on terms of unbounded familiar- 
ity with him in youth ; owing to death or other causes, he 
lost sight eventually of all of them except Mr. Stephens. 
Mr. William Bell Scott was, like Mr. Brown, a close friend 
from a very early period until the last; Scott being both poet 
and painter, there was a strict bond of affinity between him 
and Rossetti. Mr. Ruskin was extremely intimate with my 
brother from 1854 till about 1865, and was of material help 
to his professional career. As he rose towards celebrity, 
Rossetti knew Burne Jones, and through him Morris and 
Swinburne, all stanch and fervently sympathetic friends. 
Mr. Shields was a rather later acquaintance, who soon be- 
came an intimate, equally respected and cherished ; then 
Mr. Hueifer the musical critic (now a close family connec- 
tion, editor of the Tauchnitz edition of Rossetti's works), 
and Dr. Hake the poet. Through the latter my brother 
came to know Mr. Theodore Watts, whose intellectual com- 
panionship and incessant assiduity of friendship did more 
than anything else towards assuaging the discomforts and 
depression of his closing years. In the latest period the 
most intimate among new acquaintances were Mr. WiUiam 
Sharp and Mr. Hall Caine, both of them known to Rosset- 
tian readers as his biographers. Nor should I omit to speak 
of the extremely friendly relation in which my brother stood 
to some of the principal purchasers of his pictures, — Mr. 
Leathart, Mr. Rae, Mr. Leyland, Mr. Graham, Mr. Valpy, Mr. 
Turner, and his early associate, Mr. Boyce. Other names 
crowd upon me,— James Hannay, John Tupper, Patmore, 
Thomas and John Seddon, Mrs. Bodichon, Browning, John 
Marshall, Tebbs, Mrs. Gilchrist, Miss Boyd, Sandys, Whist- 
ler, Joseph Knight, Fairfax Murray, Mr. and Mrs. Stillman, 
Treffi-y Dunn, Lord and Lady Mount-Temple, Oliver Madox 
Brown, the Marstons, father and son, — but I forbear. 



PREFACE. xvii 

Before proceeding to some brief account of the sequence, 
etc., of my brother's writings, it may be worth while to speak 
of the poets who were particularly influential in nurturing 
his mind and educing its own poetic endowment. The first 
poet with whom he became partially familiar was Shak- 
speare. Then followed the usual boyish fancies for Walter 
Scott and Byron. The Bible was deeply impressive to him, 
perhaps above all Job, Ecclesiastes, and the Apocalypse. 
Byron gave place to Shelley when my brother was about 
sixteen years of age; and Mrs. Browning and the old Eng- 
lish or Scottish ballads rapidly ensued. It may have been 
towards this date, say 1845, that he first seriously applied 
himself to Dante, and drank deep of that inexhaustible well- 
head of poesy and thought ; for the Florentine, though 
familiar to him as a name, and in some sense as a pervading 
penetrative influence, from earliest childhood, was not really 
assimilated until boyhood was practically past. Bailey's 
Fesius was enormously relished about the same time, — 
read again and yet again ; also Faust, Victor Hugo, De 
Musset (and along with them a swarm of French novehsts), 
and Keats, whom my brother for the most part, though no. 
without some compunctious visitings now and then, truly 
preferred to Shelley. The only classical poet whom he took 
to in any degree worth speaking of was Homer, the Odyssey 
considerably more than the Iliad. Tennyson reigned along 
with Keats, and Edgar Poe and Coleridge along with Tenny- 
son. In the long run he perhaps enjoyed and revered 
Coleridge beyond any other modern poet whatsoever; but 
Coleridge was not so distinctly or separately in the ascend- 
ant at any particular period of youth as several of the 
others. Blake likewise had his peculiar meed of homage, 
and Charles Wells, the influence of whose prose style in 
the Stories after Nattire I trace to some extent in Rossetti's 



xviii PREFACE. 

Hand a7id Soul. Lastly came Browning, and for a time 
like the serpent-rod of Moses, swallowed up all the rest. 
This was still at an early stage of life ; for I think the year 
1847 cannot certainly have been passed before my brother 
was deep in Browning. The readings or fragmentary reci- 
tations of Bells and Pomegranates^ Paracelszis, and above 
all Sordello, are something to remember from a now distant 
past. My brother lighted upon Pa7(li?ie (published anony- 
mously) in the British Museum, copied it out, recognized 
that it must be Browning's, and wrote to the great poet at a 
venture to say so, receiving a cordial response, followed by 
genial and friendly intercourse for several years. One prose- 
work of great influence upon my brother's mind, and upon 
his product as a painter, must not be left unspecified,— 
Malory's Mort d' Arthur, which engrossed him towards 
1856. The only poet whom I feel it needful to add to the 
above is Chatterton. In the last two or three years of his 
life my brother entertained an abnormal — I think an exag- 
gerated — admiration of Chatterton. It appears tome that 
(to use a very hackneyed phrase) he " evolved this from his 
inner consciousness" at that late period; certainly in youth 
and early manhood he had no such feeling. He then read 
the poems of Chatterton with cursory glance and unexcited 
spirit, recognizing them as very singular performances for 
their date in English literature, and for the author's boyish 
years, but beyond that laying no marked stress upon them. 

The reader may perhaps be surprised to find some names 
unmentioned in this list: I have stated the facts as I re- 
member and know them. Chaucer, Spenser, the EHzabe- 
than dramatists (other than Shakspeare), Milton, Dryden, 
Pope, Wordsworth, are unnamed. It should not be sup- 
posed that he read them not at all, or cared not for any of 
them ; but if we except Chaucer in a rather loose way and 



PREFACE. xix 

(at a late period of life) Mario we in some of his non- 
dramatic poems, tliey were comparatively neglected. Thomas 
Hood he valued highly ; also very highly Burns in mature 
years, but he was not a constant reader of the Scottish lyrist. 
Of Italian poets he earnestly loved none save Dante : Caval- 
canti in his degree, and also Pohziano and Michelangelo, — 
not Petrarca, Boccaccio, Ariosto, Tasso, or Leopardi, though 
in boyhood he delighted well enough in Ariosto. Of French 
poets, none beyond Hugo and De Musset ; except Villon, 
and partially Dumas, whose novels ranked among his favor- 
ite reading. In German poetry he read nothing currently 
in the original, although (as our pages bear witness) he had 
in earliest youth so far mastered the language as to make 
some translations. Calderon, in Fitzgerald's version, he 
admired deeply ; but this was only at a late date. He had 
no hking for the specialities of Scandinavian, nor indeed 
of Teutonic, thought and work, and httle or no curiosity 
about Oriental — such as Indian, Persian, or Arabic — 
poetry. Any writing about devils, spectres, or the supernat- 
ural generally, whether in poetry or in prose, had always a 
fascination for him; at one time, say 1844, his supreme de- 
light was the blood-curdling romance of Maturin, Mehnoth 
the Wanderer. 

I now pass to a specification of my brother's own writ- 
ings. Of his merely childish or boyish performances I need 
have said nothing, were it not that they have been mentioned 
in other books regarding Rossetti. First then there was 
The Slave, a "drama" which he composed and wrote out in 
or about the sixth year of his age. It is of course simple 
nonsense. "Slave" and "traitor" were two words which 
he ioxmd. passim in Shakspeare ; so he gave to his principal 
or only characters the names of Slave and Traitor. If what 
they do is meaningless, what they say (when they deviate 



XX PREFACE. 

from prose) is probably unmetrical; but it is so Ion? since 
Ireadr^.^/... that I speak about this with uncefta intv 
Towards h,s thirteenth year he began a romantic prose-tale 
named Roderuk and Rosalia. I hardly think that he com! 
posed anything else prior to the ballad narrative Sir Uu^h 
the Heron, founded on a tale by Allan Cunningham. Our 
grandfather printed it in 1843, which is probably the year of 
Its composition. It is correctly enough versified, but has no 
merit, and little that could even be called promise. Soon 
afterwards a prose-tale named Sorrentino, in which the Devil 

length, It was of course boyish, but it must, I think, have 
shown some considerable degree of cleverness. In 1844 or 
.845 there was a translation of Burger's Lenore, spirited and 
I suppose fairly efficient ; and in November, .845, was begun 
a translation of the mtelungenlied, almost deserving (if my 
memory serves me) to be considered good. Several hun- 
dred lines of It must certainly have been written. My brother 
was by th^ time a practised and competent versifier at any 
rate, and his mere prentice-work may count as finished. 

,l„n r'?°^' ""■'"' °°' '° ^"y '"S' '5"^»*ity. succeeded, 
along with the version of Der Arme Heinrick, and the be- 
ginning of his translations from the early Italians. These 
niust, I think, have been in full career in the first half of 
1847, .f not in 1846. They show a keen sensitiveness to 
whatsoever is poetic m the originals, and a sinuous strength 
and ease in providing EngUsh equivalents, with the com- 
mand of a rich and romantic vocabulary. In his nineteenth 
year, or before 12th May, ,847, he wrote The Blessed 
Damozel.^ As that is universally recognized as one of his 

r,J '"\1"°*"' f '^ '"' '" ^ ''^"""' P*"*'d by Mr. Calne. He must 
tr„r,f' *"'" ""■"='• °*=™- ' *™M have thought ,^Z 

twentieth year, or even his twenty-fot, would be nearer the mark 



PREFACE. xxi 

typical or consummate productions, marking the high level 
of his faculty whether inventive or executive, I may here 
close this record of preliminaries, — the poems, with such 
slight elucidations as my notes supply, being left to speak 
for themselves. I will only add that for some while, more 
especially in the later part of 1848 and in 1849, "^7 brother 
practised his pen to no small extent in writing sonnets to 
bouts-ri7nSs. He and I would sit together in our bare little 
room at the top of No. 50 Charlotte Street, I giving him the 
rhymes for a sonnet, and he me the rhymes for another ; 
and we would write off our emulous exercises with consid- 
erable speed, he constantly the more rapid of the two. 
From five to eight minutes may have been the average time 
for one of his sonnets ; not unfrequently more, and some- 
times hardly so much. In fact, the pen scribbled away at 
its fastest. Many of his bouts-rhnis sonnets still exist in 
my possession, a little touched up after the first draft. Two 
or three seemed to me nearly good enough to appear in the 
present collection, but on the whole I decided against them 
all. Some have d.faux air of intensity of meaning, as well 
as of expression ; but their real core of significance is neces- 
sarily small, the only wonder being how he could spin so 
deftly with so weak a thread. I may be allowed to mention 
that most of my own sonnets (and not sonnets alone) pub- 
lished in The Ger7n were bouis-rhnes experiments such as 
above described. In poetic tone they are of course inferior 
to my brother's work of like fashioning ; in point of sequence 
or self-congruity of meaning, the comparison might be less 
to my disadvantage. 

Dante Rossetti's published works were as follows : three 
volumes, chiefly of poetry. I shall transcribe the titlepages 
verbatifn, 

{y) The Early Italian Poets from Ciullo d'Alcamo to 



xxn PREFACE. 



Dante Ahgh.en (iio^-iaoo-ijoo) in the Original iVfetres 

Together with Dante's Vita Nuova. Translated bv D r 

Rossett, Part I. Poets chiefly before D nte Pan H 

Dante and his Circle. London: Smith, Elder and Co t 

Cornhill ,86. The rights of translation and Croduai^^^^^ 

as regards all editorial parts of this work, are reserved ' 

(I ) Dante and his Circle, with the Italian Poets preced- 

mg h,m Ct,oo-r2oo-.3oo). A Collection of Lyrics edited 

an translated in the orig,-nal metres by Dante Lwlitt 

sett. Reused and rearranged edition. Part L Dante's 

chilfl rr-'''- P°^'^°£ Dante's Circle. Part IL Poets 

t::i,'^: it '""'^"^ ""'^ ^-^ ^'-"'' -^ ^" 

(2') Poems by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. A new edition 
London: Ellis and White, .9 New Bond Street. TssT 

don Elt^ .'w,^""""' ^^ ^^-^'-^ <^^'^^'<=' Kossetti. Lon- 
don Elhs and White, 29 New Bond Street, W. ,881 

book as I bt^t altered m arrangement, chiefly by inyertin<. 

nr^r', 1, °^ ^° ^^'■"^'' P<="<'d' ="-^ printed. In the 

present collection I reprint iS taking no further count of 
The volume 2^ s to a great extent the same as 2-, yet by no 

ZTi:/T T \ '' ^°"'=''°^'^ ^ -"'- --<! ^- 

LS; A. U ' "''f'l^'=««l 3 were published simulta- 
consTst son r' ''^'■'^' '"^ co^^\<^i.6., was made to 
consist solely of sonnets, and was transferred to x ■ while 
he gap thus left in 2» was filled up by other poems ' With 
this essential modification of The House ofLtfei, was clea Iv 
my duty not to interfere. -^ ^ ^ 



PREFACE, xxiii 

It thus became impossible for me to reproduce 2^ ; but the 
question had to be considered whether I should reprint 2" 
and 3 exactly as they stood in 1881, adding after them a sec- 
tion of poems not hitherto printed in any one of my brother's 
vokimes ; or whether I should recast, in point of arrange- 
ment, the entire contents of 2^ and 3, inserting here and 
there, in their most appropriate* sequence, the poems hitherto 
unprinted. I have chosen the latter alternative, as being in 
my own opinion the only arrangement which is thoroughly 
befitting for an edition of Collected Works. I am aware 
that some readers would have preferred to see the old order — 
that is, the order of 188 1 —retained, so that the two volumes 
of that year could be perused as they then stood. Indeed, 
one of my brother's friends, most worthy whether as friend 
or as critic to be consulted on such a subject, decidedly 
advocated that plan. On the other hand, I found my own 
view confirmed by my sister Christina, who both as a mem- 
ber of the family and as a poetess deserved an attentive 
bearing. The reader who inspects my table of contents 
will be readily able to follow the method of arrangement 
which is here adopted. I have divided the materials into 
Principal Poems, IMiscellaneous Poems, Translations, and 
some minor headings ; and have in each section arranged 
the poems, — and the same has been done with the prose- 
writings,— in some approximate order of date. This or- 
der of date is certainly not very far from correct; but I 
could not make it absolute, having frequently no distinct 
information to go by. The few translations which were 
printed in 2" (as also in 2*) have been removed to follow 
on after i\ I shall give in a tabular form some particulars 
which will enable the reader to follow out for himself, if he 
takes an interest in such minutiae, the original arrangement 
of 2*, 2", and 3. 



xxiv PREFACE. 

There are two poems by my brother, unpublished as yet, 
which I am unable to include among his Collected Works. 
One of these is a grotesque ballad about a Dutchman, begun 
at a very early date, and finished in his last illness. The 
other is a brace of sonnets, interesting in subject and as be- 
ing the very last thing that he wrote. These works were pre- 
sented as a gift of love and gratitude to a friend, with whom 
it remains to publish them at his own discretion. I have 
also advisedly omitted three poems; two of them sonnets, 
the third a ballad of no great length. One of the sonnets is 
that entitled Nuptial Sleep. It appeared in the volume of 
Poems 1870 (2'), but was objected to by Mr. Buchanan, and 
I suppose by some other censors, as being indelicate; and 
my brother excluded it from The House of Life in his third 
volume. I consider that there is nothing in the sonnet 
which need imperatively banish it from his Collected Works; 
but his own decision commands mine, and besides it could not 
now be reintroduced into The House of Life ^ which he moulded 
into a complete whole without it, and would be misplaced if 
isolated by itself, — a point as to which his opinion is very 
plainly set forth in his prose-paper The Stealthy School of 
Criticism. The second sonnet, named On the French Lib- 
eration of Italy, was put into print by my brother while he 
was preparing his volume of 1870, but he resolved to leave it 
unpublished. Its title shows plainly enough that it relates 
to a matter in which sexual morals have no part ; but the 
subject is treated under the form of a vigorous and perhaps 
repulsive metaphor, and here again I follow his own lead. 
The ballad above referred to, Dennis Shand, is a skilful and 
really very harmless production ; it was printed but not pub- 
lished, hke the sonnet last-mentioned, and no writer other 
than one who took a grave view of questions of moral pro- 
priety would have preferred to suppress it. My brother's 



PREFACE. XXV 

v' 
opinion is worded thus in a letter to Mr. Caine, which that 
gentleman has published : " The ballad . . . deals trivially 
with a base amour (it was written very early), and is therefore 
really reprehensible to some extent." I will not be less 
jealously scrupulous for him than he was for himself. 

Dante Rossetti was a very fastidious writer, and, I might 
add, a very fastidious painter. He did not indeed " cudgel 
his brains " for the idea of a poem or the structure or diction 
of a stanza. He wrote out of a large fund or reserve of 
thought and consideration, which would culminate in a clear 
impulse or (as we say) an inspiration. In the execution he 
was always heedful and reflective from the first, and he 
spared no after-pains in clarifying and perfecting. He ab- 
horred anything straggling, slipshod, profuse, or uncondensed. 
He often recurred to his old poems, and was reluctant to 
leave them merely as they were. A natural concomitant of 
this state of mind was a great repugnance to the notion of 
publishing, or of having published after his death, whatever 
he regarded as juvenile, petty, or inadequate. As editor of 
his Collected Works, I have had to regulate myself by these 
feelings of his, whether my own entirely correspond with them 
or not. The amount of unpublished work which he left behind 
him was by no means large ; out of the moderate bulk I have 
been careful to select only such examples as I suppose that 
he would himself have approved for the purpose, or would, 
at any rate, not gravely have objected to. A list of the new 
items is given at page xxxix., and a few details regarding them 
will be found among my notes. Some projects or arguments 
of poems which he never executed are also printed among 
his prose-writings. These particular projects had, I think, 
been practically abandoned by him in all the later years of 
his life ; but there was one subject which he had seriously at 
heart, and for which he had collected some materials, and he 



xxvi PREFACE. 

would perhaps have put it into shape had he lived a year or 
two longer, — a ballad on the subject of Joan Dare, to match 
The White Ship and The King's Tragedy. 

I have not unfrequently heard my brother say that he con- 
sidered himself more essentially a poet than a painter. To 
vary the form of expression, he thought that he had mastered 
the means of embodying poetical conceptions in the verbal 
and rhythmical vehicle more thoroughly than in form and 
design, perhaps more thoroughly than in color. 

I may take this opportunity of observing that I hope to 
publish at an early date a substantial selection from the 
family-letters written by my brother, to be preceded by a 
Memoir drawn up by Mr. Theodore Watts, who will be able 
to express more freely and more impartially than myself 
some of the things most apposite to be said about Dante 
Gabriel Rossetti. 

WILLIAM M. ROSSETTL 

London, June, 1886. 



NOTE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION. 

This volume contains all the poems published by 
Mr. Rossetti during his lifetime (Poems 1881, and Bal- 
lads and Sonnets 1881), and those published since his 
death and included in the Collected Works. 



CONTENTS 



TO 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL AND OTHER 
POEMS. 



Poems. 

r. T-. PAGE 

The Blessed Damozel j 

Love's Nocturn o 

Troy Town .... ^ 
lo 

The Burden of Nineveh 21 

Eden Bower . . . 

31 

Ave .... 

,^ 41 

'-[The Staff and Scrip . . 

47 

A Last Confession g 

Dante at Verona . . o 

04 

Jenny 

no 

The Portrait .... o 

**• I2o 

Sister Helen . . . 

134 

Stratton Water . . 

149 

The Stream's Secret ... ,,0 

The Card-Dealer 

My Sister's Sleep j^ 

Aspecta Medusa j-^ 



xxviii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A New Year's Burden i77 

Even so ^78 

An Old Song ended I79 

Down Stream iSo 

Wellington's Funeral 182 

World's Worth 186 

The Bride's Prelude 188 



2rran0lati0n0. 

, Three Translations from Francois Villon: 

The Ballad of Dead Ladies 237 

To Death, of his Lady 238 

His Mother's Service to our Lady ... 239 

/John of Tours (Old French) 241 

My Father's Close (Old French) 243 

'Beauty (Sappho) 245 

Youth and Lordship (Italian Street-Song) . . 246 

' The Leaf (Leopardi) 249 

Francesca da Rimini (Dante) 250 



CONTENTS. xxix 



;>LovE-LiLY . . ^^^^ 

255 

--'First Love Rememberei/' . 

257 

^Plighted Promise ... 

258 

/ Sudden Light . . 

260 

A Little While . . 
-^ 261 

^ The Song of the Bower . 

263 

..Penumbra . . , 

^r. 265 

vPThe Woodspurge ... 

267 

.,- The Honeysuckle . . 

268 

A Young Fir-wood . . 

• • ••..... 269 

The Sea-Limits 

270 



Sennets for Pictures, antr ©tjer Sonnets. 

For * Our Lady of the Rocks/ by Leonardo da 
Vinci . . . 

275 

\ For a Venetian Pastoral, by Giorgione ... 276 

For an Allegorical Dance of Women, by 

Andrea Mantegna 277 

For 'Ruggiero and Angelica,^ by Ingres . 278, 279 



x^x CONTENTS, 

PAGE 

For "The Wine of Circe," by Edward Burne 

Jones 280 

-Mary's Girlhood 281 

The Passover in the Holy Family 282 

Mary Magdalene at the Door of Simon the 

Pharisee 283 

LiLiTH 284 

Venus Verticordia 285 

Cassandra 286, 287 

/Pandora 288 

^On Refusal of Aid between Nations .... 289 

On THE 'Vita Nuova'of Dante 290 

Dantis Tenebr^ 291 

Beauty and the Bird 292 

A Match \iith the Moon 293 



CONTENTS 

TO 

BALLADS AND SONNETS. 



BALLADS. 

Page 
IT 1 

Beryl-Song 



Rose Mary, Part I. . 

3 



17 

Rose Mary, Part II 

Beryl-Song . 

Rose Mary, Part III. . ^ 

; • . 30 

Beryl-Song 

The White Ship 

(Henry I. of England) ........ 53 

The King's Tragedy 

(James I. of Scots) 7, 



xxxu CONTENTS. 



/THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

\ SONNET-SEQUENCE. 1 

Page 

Introductory Sonnet » ii7 

Part I. Youth and Change. 

I. Love Enthroned 119 

♦II. Bridal Birth 120 

*III. Love's Testament c . . 121 

*IV. Lovesight 122 

V. Heart's Hope 123 

*VI. The Kiss .124 

*Vn. Supreme Surrender 125 

yill. Love's Lovers 126 

*IX. Passion and Worship 127 

*X. The Portrait 128 

*XI. The Love-Letter 129 

XII. The Lovers' Walk 130 

XIII. Youth's Antiphony 131 

* In this table, the sonnets marked * are those which appeared in the author's 
former volume. 



CONTENTS. xxxiii 



Page 
iribute 

*XV. The Birth-Bond . . . 



XIV. Youth's Spring-Tribute 132 



• 133 

*XVI. A Day of Love j^ 

XVII. Beauty's Pageant j^ 

XVIII. Genius in Beauty j^g 

XIX. Silent Noon ^^^ 

XX. Gracious Moonlight j^3 

*XXI. Love-Sweetness 

XXII. Heart's Haven ... 

140 

*XXIII. Love's Baubles . . 

J41 

XXIV. Pride of Youth j 2 

*XXV. Winged Hours j^^ 

XXVI. Mid- Rapture .... 

XXVII. Heart's Compass j^- / 

XXVIII. Soul-Light j^g 

XXIX. The Moonstar ,..*, 

147 V 

XXX. Last Fire i^g 

XXXI. Her Gifts 

XXXII. Equal Troth j^o 

XXXIII. Venus Victrix jrj 

XXXIV. THe Dark Glass 1^2 

XXXV. The Lamp's Shrine 153 

*XXXVI. Life-in-Love * ,^4 

*XXXVII. The Love-M-opn i^^ 



xxxiv CONTENTS. 

Page 

*XXXVIII. The Morrow's Message 156 

*XXXIX. Sleepless Dreams 157 

XL. Severed Selves 158 

XLI. Through Death to Love 159 

_- — i XLH. Hope Overtaken 160 

XLIIL Love and Hope 161 

XLIV. Cloud and Wind 162 

*XLV. Secret Parting 163 

*XLVL Parted Love 164 

*XLVn. Broken Music 165 

♦XLVin. Death-in-Love 166 

*XLIX. WiUowwood 167 

*L. WiUowwood. II 168 

*LI. WiUowwood. Ill 169 

*LII. WiUowwood. IV 170 

LIII. Without Her 171 

LIV. Love's Fatality 172 

*LV. StUlborn Love 173 

LVI. True Woman. I. Herself 174 

LVII. True Woman. II. Her Love .... 175 

LVIII. True Woman. III. Her Heaven . . 176 

LIX. Love's Last Gift 177 



CONTENTS. XXXV 



Part II. Change and Fate. 

Page 

LX. Transfigured Life 178 

LXI. The Song-Throe 179 

LXII. The Soul's Sphere 180 

*LXIII. Inclusiveness 181 

LXIV. Ardor and Memory . , 182 */ 

*LXV. Known in Vain 183 

LXVI. The Heart of the Night 184 

*LXVII. The Landmark 185 

*LXVIII. A Dark Day 186 

*LXIX. Autumn Idleness 187 

*LXX. The Hill Summit 188 

*LXXI. The Choice. 1 189 

*LXXII. The Choice. II 190 

*LXXIII. The Choice. Ill 191 

*LXXIV. Old and New Art. I. St. Luke the 

Painter 192 

LXXV. Old and New Art. II. Not as These . 193 v/ 

LXXVI. Old and New Art. III. The Husband- 

men 194 '/ 

♦LXXVII. Soul's Beauty 195 

♦LXXVIII. Body's Beauty 196 



xxxvi CONTENTS, 

r Page 

*LXXIX. The Monochord . 197 

LXXX. From Dawn to Noon 198 

LXXXI. Memorial Thresholds 199 

*LXXXII. Hoarded Joy 200 

*LXXXIII. Barren Spring 201 

*LXXXIV. Farewell to the Glen 202 

*LXXXV. Vain Virtues 203 

*LXXXVI. Lost Days 204 

*LXXXVII. Death's Songsters 205 

LXXXVIII. Hero's Lamp 206 

LXXXIX. The Trees of the Garden 207 

*XC. "Retro me, Sathana!" 208 

*XCL Lost on Both Sides 209 

*XCn. The Sun's Shame. 1 210 

XCIII. The Sun's Shame. II 211 

XCIV. Michelangelo's Kiss 212 

*XCV. The Vase of Life 213 

XCVI. Life the Beloved 214 

*XCVII. A Superscription 215 

*XCVIII. He and I 216 

*XCIX. Newborn Death. 1 217 

*C. Newborn Death. II 218 

*CI. The One Hope 219 



CONTENTS. xxxvii 



LYRICS, &C. 

Page 

Soothsay 223 

Chimes 228 

Parted Presence 235 

A Death-Parting 238 

Spheral Change 240 

•Sunset Wings 242 

xSong and Music « . 244 

^ Three Shadows 245 

Alas, So Long! 247 

Adieu 249 

Insomnia 251 

Possession 253 

The Cloud Confines 254 



SONNETS. 

For the Holy Family (by Michelangelo) ..... 259 

y¥or Spring (by Sandro Botticelli) 260 

/Five EngHsh Poets — 

I. Thomas Chatterton .... v ••• 261 

II. William Blake 262 



xxxvni CONTENTS, 

Five English Poets — 

III. Samuel Taylor Coleridge 263 

IV. John Keats 264 

V. Percy Bysshe Shelley 265 

Tiber, Nile, and Thames 266 

The Last Three from Trafalgar . 267 

Czar Alexander II 268 

Words on the Window-pane 269 

Winter 270 

Spring 271 

The Church-Porch 272 

Untimely Lost. (OHver Madox Brown) 273 

Place de la Bastille, Paris 274 

"Found" (for a Picture) 275 

A Sea-Spell (for a Picture) 276 

Fiammetta (for a Picture) 277 

-The Day-Dream (for a Picture) • 278 

--Astarte Syriaca (for a Picture) 279 

Proserpina (per un Quadro) 280 

Proserpina (for a Picture) 281 

La Bella Mano (per un Quadro) 282 

La Bella Mano (for a Picture) 283 



CONTENTS. xxxix 

ADDITIONAL POEMS. 
(1886.) 

Page 

At the Sunrise in 1848 287 

Autumn Song 288 

The Lady's Lament 289 

A Trip to Paris and Belgium 291 

The Staircase of Notre Dame, Paris 299 

Near Brussels — A Half-way Pause 300 

Antwerp and Bruges 301 

-On Leaving Bruges 303 

Vox Ecclesiie, Vox Christi 304 

The Mirror ^oz 

During Music 306 

On the Site of a Mulberry-tree, etc 307 

On Certain Elizabethan Revivals 308 

English May 309 

Dawn on the Night-journey 3 to 

To Philip Bourke Marston 311 

Raleigh's Cell in the Tower 312 

For an Annunciation 313 



xl CONTENTS, 

Page 

For a Virgin and Child by Memmelinck 314 

For a Marriage of St. Catherine, by the same . . . 315 

Gioventu E Signoria 316 

Michael Scott's Wooing 317 

Mnemosyne 317 

La Ricordanza (Memory) 317 

Con Manto d'Oro, etc. (With Golden Mantle, etc.) . . 318 

Robe d'Or, etc. (A Golden Robe, etc.) 318 

Barcarola . . . . • 319 

Barcarola 320 

Bambino Fasciato 320 

Thomae Fides 321 

Versicles and Fragments 322-326 



Notes by William M. Rossetti 327 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL AND 
OTHER POEMS. 



POEMS. 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 

The blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of Heaven ; 

Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
Of waters stilled at even ; 

She had three lilies in her hand, 
And the stars in her hair were seveiu 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
No wrought flowers did adom^ 

But a white rose of Mary*s gift, 
For service meetly worn ; 

Her hair that lay along her back 

Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Herseemed she scarce had been a day 
One of God*s choristers ; 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL, 

The wonder was not yet quite gone 
From that still look of hers ; 

Albeit, to them she left, her day 
Had counted as ten years. 

(To one, it is ten years of years. 

. . . Yet now, and in this place, 
Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 

Fell all about my face. . . . 
Nothing : the autumn fall of leaves. 

The whole year sets apace.) 

It was the rampart of God*s house 

That she was standing on ; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is Space begun ; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in Heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL, 

Around her, lovers, newly met 

'Mid deathless love's acclaims, 
Spoke evermore among themselves 

Their heart-remembered names ; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path ; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 

The sun was gone now ; the curled moon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now 

She spoke through the still weather. 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL, 

Her voice was like the voice the stars 
Had when they sang together. 

(Ah sweet I Even now, in that bird's song, 

Strove not her accents there, 
Fain to be hearkened ? When those bells 

Possessed the mid-day air, 
Strove not her steps to reach my side 

Down all the echoing stair ?) 

* I w?sh that he were come to me, 

For he will come,* she said. 
' Have I not prayed in Heaven ? — on earth. 

Lord, Lord, has he not pray*d ? 
Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? 

And shall I feel afraid ? 

' When round his head the aureole clings, 

And he is clothed in white, 
1*11 take his hand and go with him 

To the deep wells of light ; ^ 
As unto a stream we will step down, 

And bathe there in God's sight. 

* We two will stand beside that shrine, 

Occult, withheld, untrod, 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL, 

Whose lamps are stirred continually 
With prayer sent up to God ; 

And see our old prayers, granted, melt 
Each like a little cloud. 

We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic tree 
Within whose secret growth the Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be, 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His Name audibly. 

* And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so, 
The songs I sing here ; which his voice 

Shall pause in, hushed and slow, 
And find some knowledge at each pause. 

Or some new thing to know.* 

(Alas I We two, we two, thou sa3^st I 
Yea, one wast thou with me 

That once of old. But shall God lift 
To endless unity 

The soul whose likeness with thy soul 
Was but its love for thee ?) 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL, 

• We two,' she said, * will seek the grove* 

Where the lady Mary is. 
With her five handmaidens, whose names 

Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret and Rosalys. 

* Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded ; 
Into the fine cloth white like flame 

Weaving the golden thread. 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 

' He shall fear, haply, and be dumb : 

Then will I lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love, 

Not once abashed or weak : 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me speak. 



' Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, 
To Him round whom all souls 

Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered headf 
Bowed with their aureoles : 



THE BLESShD DAMOZEL, 

And angels meeting us shall sing 
To their citherns and citoles. 

♦There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
Thus much for him and me : — 

Only to live as once on earth 
With Love, only to be, 

As then awhile, for ever now 
Together, I and he.' 

She gazed and listened and then said, 
Less sad of speech than mild, — 

* All this is when he comes.' She ceased. 
The light thrilled towards her, lillM 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
Was vague in distant spheres : 

And then she cast her arms along 
The golden barriers. 

And laid her face between her hands, 
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 



LOVE'S NOCTURN. 

Master of the murmuring courts 

Where the shapes of sleep convene ! — 

Lo I my spirit here exhorts 
All the powers of thy demesne 
For their aid to woo my queen. 

What reports 
Yield thy jealous courts unseen ? 

Vaporous, unaccountable, 

Dreamland lies forlorn of light, 

Hollow like a breathing shell. 

Ah I that from all dreams I might 
Choose one dream and guide its flight I 

I know well 
What her sleep should tell to-night. 



LOVE'S NOCTURN. 

There the dreams are multitudes : 

Some that will not wait for sleep, 
Deep within the August woods ; 

Some that hum while rest may steep 

Weary labor laid a-heap ; 
Interludes, 

Some, of grievous moods that weep. . 

Poets' fancies all are there : 

There the elf-girls flood with wings 
Valleys full of plaintive air ; 

There breathe perfumes ; there in rmgs 

Whirl the foam-bewildered springs ; 
Siren there 

Winds her dizzy hair and sings. 

Thence the one dream mutually 

Dreamed in bridal unison, 
Less than waking ecstasy ; 

Half-formed visions that make moan 

In the house of birth alone ; 
And what we 

At death's wicket see, unknown. 



10 LOVE'S NOCTURN, 

But for mine own sleep, it lies 
In one gracious form's control. 

Fair with honorable eyes, 
Lamps of a translucent soul : 
O their glance is loftiest dole, 

Sweet and wise. 
Wherein Love descries his goal. 



Reft of her, my dreams are all 
Clammy trance that fears the slqf s 

Changing footpaths shift and fall ; 
From polluted coverts nigh, 
Miserable phantoms sigh ; 
Quakes the pall. 
And the funeral goes by. 

Master, is it soothly said 

That, as echoes of man's speech 
Far in secret clefts are made. 

So do all men's bodies reach 

Shadows o'er thy sunken beach, — 
Shape or shade 

In those halls portrayed of each? 



LOVE'S NOCTURN, ii 

Ah ! might I, by thy good grace 

Groping in the windy stair, 
(Darkness and the breath of space 

Like loud waters everywhere), 

Meeting mine own image there 
Face to face, 

Send it from that place to her I 

Nay, not I ; but oh I do thou, 

Master, from thy shadow kind 
Call my body's phantom now : 

Bid it bear its face declined 

Till its flight her slumbers find, 
And her brow 

Feel its presence bow like wind. 

Where in groves the gracile Spring 

Trembles, with mute orisor. 
Confidently strengthening, 

Water's voice and wind's as one 

Shed an echo m the sun. 
Soft as Spring, 

Master, bid it sing and moan. 



la LOVE'S NOCTURN. 

Song shall tell how glad and strong 
Is the night she soothes alway ; 

Moan shall grieve with that parched tongue 
Of the brazen hours of day : 
Sounds as of the springtide they, 

Moan and song, 
While the chill months long for May. 

Not the prayers which with all leave 

The world's fluent woes prefer, — 
Not the praise the world doth give, 

Dulcet fulsome whisperer ; — 

Let it yield my love to her. 
And achieve 

Strength that shall not grieve or en 

Wheresoever my dreams befall, 
Both at night-watch, (let it say), 

And where round the sun-dial 
The reluctant hours of day. 
Heartless, hopeless of their way, 

Rest and call ; — 
There her sflance doth fall and stay. 



LOVE'S NOCTURN, c^ 

Suddenly her face is there : 

So do mounting vapors wreathe 
Subtle-scented transports where 

The black fir-wood sets its teeth 

Part the boughs and look beneath, — 
Lilies share 

Secret waters there, and breathe. 

Master, bid my shadow bend 

Whispering thus till birth of light, 
Lest new shapes that sleep may send 

Scatter all its work to flight ; — 

Master, master of the night, 
Bid it spend 

Speech, song, prayer, and end aright 

Yet, ah me ! if at her head 

There another phantom lean 
Murmuring o'er the fragrant bed, — 

Ah ! and if my spirit's queen 

Smile those alien words between, — 
Ah I poor shade ! 

Shall it strive, or fade unseen? 



LOVE'S NOCTURN. 

How should love's own messenger 

Strive with love and be love's foe? 
Master, nay ! If thus, in her, 

Sleep a wedded heart should show, -• 

Silent let mine image go, 
Its old share 

Of thy spell-bound air to know. 

Like a vapor wan and mute, 

Like a flame, so let it pass ; 
One low sigh across her lute. 

One dull breath against her glass ; 

And to my sad soul, alas I 
One salute 

Cold as when death's foot shall pass. 

Then, too, let all hopes of mine. 

All vain hopes by night and day, 
Slowly at thy summoning sign 

Rise up pallid and obey. 

Dreams, if this is thus, were they : — 
Be they thine. 

And to dreamworld pine away. 



LOVI^^ NOCTURN, 15 

Yet from old time, life, not death, 

Master, in thy rule is rife : 
Lo I through thee, with mingling breath, 

Adam woke beside his wife. 

O Love bring me so, for strife, 
Force and faith, 

Brin^ me so not death but life I 

Yea, to Love himself is pour*d 

This frail song of hope and fear. 
Thou art Love, of one accord 

With kind Sleep to bring her near, 

Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah how dear I 
Master, Lord, 

In her name implored, O hear J 



i6 



TROY TOWN. 

Heavenborn Helen, Sparta's queen, 

{O Troy Town I) 
Had two breasts of heavenly sheen, 
The sun and moon of the heart's desire J 
All Love's lordship lay between. 
(O Troy's down, 
Tall Troys on fire I ) 

Helen knelt at Venus' shrine, 

{O.Troy Town!) 

Saying, ' A little gift is mine, 

A little gift for a heart's desire. 

Hear me speak and make me a sign I 
( O Troys down. 
Tall Troys on fire I ) 



TROY TOWN, 17 

* Look, I bring thee a carven cup ; 
(O Troy Town I) 

See it here as I hold it up, — 

Shaped it is to the heart's desire, 

Fit to fill when the gods would sup, 
( O Troy's down,, 
Tall Troys on Jire!) 



* It was moulded like my breast ; 

(O Troy Town!) 
He that sees it may not rest. 
Rest at all for his heart's desire. 
O give ear to my heart's behest I 
{O Troys down^ 
Tall Troys on fire I ) 

• See my breast, how like it is ; 

(O Troy Townl) 
See it bare for the air to kiss ! 
Is the cup to thy heait's desire? 
O for the breast, O make it his I 
( O Troys down. 
Tall Troys on fire I ) 



i8 TROY TOWN. 

* Yea, for my bosom here I sue ; 
(O Troy Townl) 

Thou must give it where 'tis due, 

Give it there to the hearf s desire. 

Whom do I give my bosom to ? 
( O Troys down^ 
Tall Troy's on Jire ! ) 

« Each twin breast is an apple sweet I 

(O Troy Town!) 
Once an apple stirred the beat 
Of thy heart with the heart's desire : -^ 
Say, who brought it then to thy feet? 
( O Troy's down^ 
Tall Troys on Jire I ) 

*They that claimed it then were three: 
(O Troy Town!) 

For thy sake two hearts did he 

Make forlorn of the heart's desire. 

Do for him as he did for thee I 
( O Troys down^ 
Tall Troys on Jire!) 



TROY TOWN, 

' Mine are apples grown to the south, 

(O Troy Town!) 
Grown to taste in the days of drouth, 
Taste and waste to the heart's desire : 
Mine are apples meet for his mouth I * 
(O Troy's down J 
Tall Trofs on fire I ) 

Venus looked on Helen's gift, 

(O Troy Town I) 
Looked and smiled with subtle drift, 
Saw the work of her heart's desire : — 
' There thou kneel'st for Love to lift 1 * 
(O Troys down. 
Tall Troys on fire ! ) 

Venus looked in Helen's face, 
{O Troy Town!) 

Knew far off an hour and place. 

And fire lit from the heart's desire ; 

Laughed and said, ' Thy gift hath grace I* 
( O Troys down, 
Tall Troys on fire!) 



19 



TROY TOWN, 

Cupid looked on Helen's breast, 
(O Troy Town!) 
Saw the heart within its nest, 
Saw the flame of the heart's desire, — 
Marked his arrow's burning crest. 
( O Troy's down^ 
Tall Troys on Jire I ) 

Cupid took another dart, 

(O Troy Town!) 

Fledged it for another heart, 

Winged the shaft with the heart's desire. 

Drew the string and said, ' Depart ! ' 
( O Troy's down, 
Tall Troy's on Jire I) 

Paris turned upon his bed, 

(O Troy Town I) 

Turned upon his bed and said. 

Dead at heart with the heart's desire, — • 

' O to clasp her golden head I * 
(O Troys downy 
Tall Troys on Jire!) 



THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 

In our Museum galleries 
To-day I lingered o'er the prize 
Dead Greece vouchsafes to living eyes, • 
Her Art for ever in fresh wise 

From hour to hour rejoicing me. 
Sighing I turned at last to win 
Once more the London dirt and din ; 
And as I made the swing-door spin 
And issued, they were hoisting in 

A winged beast from Nineveh. 

A human face the creature wore, 
And hoofs behind and hoofs before, 
And flanks with dark runes fretted o'er 
*Twas bull, 'twas mitred Minotaui, 
A dead disbowelled mystery ; 



22 THE BURDEA OF NINEVEH, 

The mummy of a buried faith 
Stark from the charnel without scathe, 
Its wings stood for the light to bathe, — 
Such fossil cerements as might swathe 
The very corpse of Nineveh. 

The print of its first rush-wrapping, 
Wound ere it dried, still ribbed the thing. 
What song did the brown maidens sing, 
From purple mouths alternating, 

When that was woven languidly ? 
What vows, what rites, what prayers preferred, 
What songs has the strange image heard? 
In what blind vigil stood interr'd 
For ages, till an English word 
Broke silence first at Nineveh } 

Oh when upon each sculptured court. 
Where eve n the wind might not resort, — 
O'er which Time passed, of like import 
With the wild Arab boys at sport, — 

A living face looked in to see : — 
Oh seemed it not — the spell once broke -^ 
As though the carven warriors woke, 



THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH, 

As though the shaft the string forsook, 
The cymbals clashed, the chariots shook, 
And there was life in Nineveh ? 

On London stones our sun anew 
The beast's recovered shadow threw. 
(No shade that plague of darkness knew, 
No light, no shade, while older grew 

By ages the old earth and sea.) 
Lo thou ! could all thy priests have shown 
Such proof to make thy godhead known ? 
From their dead Past thou liv'st alone • 
And still thy shadow is thine own 

Even as of yore in Nineveh. 

That day whereof we keep record. 
When near thy city-gates the Lord 
Sheltered his Jonah with a gourd. 
This sun, (I said) here present, pour'd 

Even thus this shadow that I see. ■ 
This shadow has been shed the same 
From sun and moon, — from lamps which came 
For prayer, — from fifteen days of flame. 
The last, while smouldered to a name 

Sardanapalus' Nineveh. 



23 



24 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH, 

Within thy shadow, haply, once 
Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons 
Smote him between the altar-stones : 
Or pale Semiramis her zones 

Of gold, her incense brought to thee, 
In love for grace, in war for aid : . . . . 
Ay, and who else ? .... till 'neath thy shade 
Within his trenches newly made 
Last year the Christian knelt and pray*d — 

Not to thy strength — in Nineveh.* 

Now, thou poor god, within this hall 
Where the blank windows blind the wall 
From pedestal to pedestal. 
The kind of light shall on thee fall 

Which London takes the day to be ; 
While school-foundations in the act 
Of holiday, three files compact, 
Shall learn to view thee as a fact 
Connected with that zealous tract : 

' Rome, — Babylon and Nineveh.' 

* During the excavations, the Tiyari workmen held their 
services in the shadow of the great bulls. {Layard's * Ninf 
vekt^ ch. 'X.) 



THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH, 2? 

Deemed they of this, those worshippers, 
When, in some mythic chain of verse 
Which man shall not again rehearse, 
The faces of thy ministers 

Yearned pale with bitter ecstasy? 
Greece, Egypt, Rome, — did any god 
Before whose feet men knelt unshod 
Deem that in this unblest abode 
Another scarce more unknown god 

Should house with him, from Nineveh ? 

Ah ! in what quarries lay the stone 
From which this pygmy pile has grown. 
Unto man's need how long unknown, 
Since thy vast temples, court and cone, 

Rose far in desert history? 
Ah ! what is here that does not lie 
All strange to thine awakened eye? 
Ah ! what is here can testify 
(Save that dumb presence of the sky) 

Unto thy day and Nineveh ? 

Why, of those mummies in the room 
Above, there might indeed have come 



16 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH, 

One out of Egypt to thy home, 
An alien. Nay, but were not some 

Of these thine own ' antiquit}"^ * ? 
And now, — they and their gods and thou 
All relics here together, — now 
Whose profit ? whether bull or cow, 
Isis or Ibis, who or how. 

Whether of Thebes or Nineveh ? 

The consecrated metals found, 
And ivory tablets, underground. 
Winged teraphim and creatures crown'd 
When air and daylight filled the mound, 

Fell into dust immediately. 
And even as these, the images 
Of awe and worship, — even as these,— - 
So, smitten with the sun's increase, • 
Her glory mouldered and did cease 

From immemorial Nineveh. 

The day her builders made their halt, 
Those cities of the lake of salt 
Stood firmly 'stablished without fault. 
Made proud with pillars of basalt, 
With sardonyx and porphyry. 



THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 

The day that Jonah bore abroad 
To Nineveh the voice of God, 
A brackish lake lay in his road, 
Where erst Pride fixed her sure abode, 
As then in royal Nineveh. 

The day when he, Pride's lord and Man's, 
Showed all the kingdoms at a glance 
To Him before whose countenance 
The years recede, the years advance. 

And said, Fall down and worship me : — 
'Mid all the pomp beneath that look. 
Then stirred there, haply, some rebuke. 
Where to the wind the salt pools shook, 
And in those tracts, of life forsook. 

That knew thee not, O Nineveh \ 

Delicate harlot ! On thy throne 
Thou with a world beneath thee prone 
In state for ages sat'st alone ; 
And needs were years and lustres flown 

Ere strength of man could vanquish thee : 
Whom even thy victor foes must bring. 
Still royal, among maids that sing 



28 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH, 

As with doves' voices, laboring 
Upon their breasts, unto the King, — 
A kingly conquest, Nineveh ! 

. . . Here woke my thought. The wind's slow sway 
Had waxed ; and like the human play 
Of scorn that smiling spreads away, 
The sunshine shivered off the day : 

The callous wind, it seemed to me, 
Swept up the shadow from the ground : 
And pale as whom the Fates astound. 
The god forlorn stood winged and crown'd : 
Within I knew the cry lay bound 

Of the dumb soul of Nineveh. 

And as I turned, my sense half shut 
Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut 
Go past as marshalled to the strut 
Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut. 

It seemed in one same pageantry 
They followed forms which had been erst ; 
To pass, till on my sight should burst 
That future of the best or worst 
When some may question which was first, 

Of London or of Nineveh. 



THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 39 

For as that Bull-god once did stand 
And watched the burial-clouds of sand. 
Till these at last without a hand 
Rose o'er his eyes, another land, 

And blinded him with destiny : — 
So may he stand again ; till now, 
In ships of unknown sail and prow, 
Some tribe of the Australian plough 
^ear him afar, — a relic now 

Of London, not of Nineveh ! 

Or it may chance indeed that when 
Man's age is hoary among men, — 
His centuries threescore and ten, — 
His furthest childhood shall seem then 

More clear than later times may be : 
Who, finding in this desert place 
This form, shall hold us for some race 
That walked not in Christ's lowly ways, 
But bowed its pride and vowed its praise 

Unto the god of Nineveh 

The smile rose first, — anon drew nigh 

The thought : . • . Those heavy wings spread high 



30 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH, 

So sure of flight, which do not fly ; 
That set gaze never on the sky ; 

Those scriptured flanks it cannot see ; 
Its crown, a brow-contracting load ; 
Its planted feet which trust the sod : . • • 
(So grew the image as I trod :) 
O Nineveh, was this thy God, — 

Thine also, mighty Nineveh? 



EDEN BOWER. 

It was Lilith the wife of Adam : 

i^Eden bower's in Jlower,) 
Not a drop of her blood was human, 
But she was made like a soft sweet woman. 

Lilith stood on the skirts of Eden ; 

{And O the bozver and the hourt) 
She was the first that thence was driven ; 
With her was hell and with Eve was heaven. 

In the ear of the Snake said Lilith : — 

{Eden bower^s in flower^ 
* To thee I come when the rest is over ; 
A snake was I when thou wast my lover. 

' I was the fairest snake in Eden : 

{And O the bower and the hour I) 
By the earth's will, new form and feature 
Made me a wife for the earth*s new creature. 



\ EDEN BOWER, 

* Take me thou as I come from Adam : 

{Eden bowet^s in flower^ 
Once again shall my love subdue thee ; 
The past is past and I am come to thee. 

* O but Adam was thrall to Lilith ! 

(And O the bower and the hour I) 
All the threads of my hair are golden, 
And there in a net his heart was holden. 

* O and Lilith was queen of Adam ! 

{Eden bower's in Jlower,) 
All the day and the night together 
My breath could shake his soul like a feather. 

* What great joys had Adam and Lilith ! — 

{And O the bower and the hour !) 
Sweet close rings of the serpent's twining, 
As heart in heart lay sighing and pining. 

'What bright babes had Lilith and Adam ! — 

{Eden bower's in Jlower,) 
Shapes that coiled in the woods and waters, 
Glittering sons and radiant daughters. 



EDEN BOWER, 33 

< O thou god, the Lord God of Eden ! 

(And O the bower and the hour I) 
Say, was this fair body for no man, 
That of Adam's flesh thou mak*st him a woman? 

* O thou Snake, the King-snake of Eden ! 

(jSden dower's in Jlower^ 
God's strong will our necks are under, 
But thou and I may cleave it in sunder. 

* Help, sweet Snake, sweet lover of Lilith I 

{And O the bower and the hour t) 
And let God learn how I loved and hated 
Man in the image of God created. 

* Help me once against Eve and Adam I 

(Eden bowef^s mjlower*) 
Help me once for this one endeavor, 
And then my love shall be thine for ever I 

* Strong is God, the fell foe of Lilith : 

(And O the bower and the hour I) 
Nought in heaven or earth may affright him ; 
But join thou with me and we will smite him. 



34 EDEN BOWER. 

* Strong is God, tie great God of Eden ; 

(^JEden bower's in flower^ 
Over all He made He hath power ; 
But lend me thou thy shape for an hour I 

* Lend thy shape for the love of Lilith I 

{^And O the bower and the hour I) 
Look, my mouth and my cheek are ruddy, 
And thou art cold, and fire is my body. 

* Lend thy shape for the hate of Adam ! 

{Eden bower's in flower^ 
That he may wail my joy that forsook him, 
And curse the day when the bride-sleep took him. 

* Lend thy shape for the shame of Eden I 

{And O the bower and the hour!) 
Is not the foe-God weak as the foeman 
When love grows hate in the heart of a woman ? 

' Would' st thou know the hearfs hope of Lilith? 

(Eden bower's injftower,) 
Then bring thou close thine head till it glisten 
Along my breast, and lip me and listen. 



EDEN BOWER. 35 

* Am I sweet, O sweet Snake of Eden ? 

(And O the bower and the hour!) 
Then ope thine ear to my warm mouth's cooing 
And learn what deed remains for our doing, 

' Thou didst hear when God said to Adam : — 

(Eden bower's in flower^ 
" Of all this wealth I have made thee warden ; 
Thou'rt free to eat of the trees of the garden : 

* " Only of one tree eat not in Eden ; 

{And O the bower and the hcur!) 
All save one I give to thy freewill, — 
The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil." 

* O my love, come nearer to Lilith I 

{Eden bower's injtower,) 
In thy sweet folds bind me and bend me, 
And let me feel the shape thou shalt lend me I 

' In thy shape I'll go back to Eden ; 

{And O the bower and the hcur!) 
In these coils that Tree will I grapple. 
And stretch this crowned head forth by the apple. 



; EDEN BOWER. 

' Lo, Eve bends to the breath of Lillth ! 

{Eden bower's injlower.) 
O how then shall my heart desire 
All her blood as food to its fire ! 

' Lo, Eve bends to the words of Lilith ! — 

{And O the bower and the hour /) 
'* Nay, this Tree's fruit, — why should ye hate it. 
Or Death be bom the day that ye ate it ? 

• " Nay, but on that great day in Eden, 

{Eden bower^s in flower^ 
By the help that in this wise Tree is, 
God knows well ye shall be as He is.'* 

• Then Eve shall eat and give unto Adam ; 

{And O the bower and the hour /) 
And then they both shall know they are naked, 
And their hearts ache as my heart hath ached. 

• Aye, let them hide in the trees of Eden, 

{Eden bower's injlower.) 
As in tne cool of the day in the garden 
God shall walk without pity or pardon. 



EDEN BOWER. 37 

* Hear, thou Eve, the man's heart in Adam I 

{And O the bower and the hour!) 
Of his brave words hark to the bravest : — 
" This the woman gave that thou gavest." 

* Hear Eve speak, yea, list to her, Lilith ! 

{Eden bower's znjlower.) 
Feast thine heart with words that shall sate it — 
" This the serpent gave and I ate it." 

'O proud Eve, cling close to thine Adam, 

{And O the bower and the hourly 
Driven forth as the beasts of his naming 
By the sword that for ever is flaming. 

' Know, thy path is known unto Lilith ! 

{Eden bower's Injlower,) 
While the blithe birds sang at thy wedding, 
There her tears grew thorns for thy treading. 

* O my love, thou Love-snake of Eden ! 

{And O the bower and the hour /) 
O to-day and the day to come after ! 
Loose me, love, — give breath to my laughter I 



38 EDEN BOWER. 

' O bright Snake, the Death-worm of Adam ! 

{Eden bower^s injiower.) 
Wreathe thy neck with my hair's bright tether, 
And wear my gold and thy gold together ! 

* On that day on the skirts of Eden, 

{And O the bower and the hour I) 
In thy shape shall I glide back to thee, 
And in my shape for an instant view thee. 

* But when thou*rt thou and Lilith is Lilith, 

(Eden bower's injiower^ 
In what bliss past hearing or seeing 
Shall each one drink of the other's being ! 

* With cries of " Eve ! " and " Eden ! " and " Adam I * 

{And O the bower and the hour!) 
How shall we mingle our love's caresses, 
I in thy coils, and thou in my tresses I 

* With those names, ye echoes of Eden, 

{Eden bower's injiower^ 
Fire shall cry from my heart that burneth, — 
" Dust he is and to dust returneth 1 " 



EDEN BOWER, 39 

* Yet to-day, thou master of Lilith, — 

{^And O the bower and the hour!) 
Wrap me round in the form I'll borrow 
And let me tell thee of sweet to-morrow. 

* In the planted garden eastward in Eden, 

{Eden bower's in Jlower.) 
Where the river goes forth to water the garden, 
The springs shall dry and the soil shall harden. 

* Yea, where the bride-sleep fell upon Adam, 

{And O the bower and the hour I) 
None shall hear when the storm-wind whistles 
Through roses choked among thorns and thistles. 

* Yea, beside the east-gate of Eden, 

{Eden bower's in Jlower.) 
Where God joined them and none might sever, 
The sword turns this way and that for ever. 

' What of Adam cast out of Eden ? 

{And O the bower and the hour I) 
Lo ! with care like a shadow shaken. 
He tills the hard earth whence he was taken. 



40 EDEN BOWER, 

' What of Eve too, cast out of Eden ? 

{JBden bower's in Jlower,) 
Nay, but she, the bride of God's giving. 
Must yet be mother of all men living. 

* Lo, God's grace, by the grace of Lilith ! 

{And O the bower and the hour!) 
To Eve's womb, from our sweet to-morrow, 
God shall greatly multiply sorrow, 

* Fold me fast, O God-snake of Eden I 

(Eden bowet^s in flower,) 
What more prize than love to impel thee ? 
Grip and lip my limbs as I tell thee ! 

' Lo I two babes for Eve and for Adam ! 

{And O the bower and the hour /) 
Lo ! sweet Snake, the travail and treasure, — 
Two men-children born for their pleasure I 

* The first is Cain and the second Abel : 

{Eden bower's in flower^ 
The soul of one shall be made thy brother. 
And thy tongue shall lap the blood of the other/ 

{And O the bower and the hour!) 



41 



AVE. 

Mother of the Fair Delight, 
Thou handmaid perfect in God's sigh^ 
Now sitting fourth beside the Three, 
Thyself a woman-Trinity, — 
Being a daughter borne to God, 
Mother of Christ from stall to rood, 

And wife unto the Holy Ghost : 

Oh when our need is uttermost, 
Think that to such as death may strike 
Thou once wert sister sisterlike I 
Thou headstone of humanity, 
Groundstone of the great Mystery, 
Fashioned like us, yet more than we ! 

Mind'st thou not (when June's heavy breath 
Warmed the long days in Nazareth,) 



43 



That eve thou didst go forth to give 

Thy flowers some drink that they might live 

One faint night more amid the sands ? 

Far off the trees were as pale wands 

Against the fervid sky : the sea 

Sighed further off eternally 

As human sorrow sighs in sleep. 

Then suddenly the awe grew deep, 

As of a day to which all days 

Were footsteps in God's secret ways: 

Until a folding sense, like prayer, 

Which is, as God is, everywhere. 

Gathered about thee ; and a voice 

Spake to thee without any noise. 

Being of the silence : — ' Hail,' it said, 

* Thou that art highly favored ; 

The Lord is with thee here and now ; 

Blessed among all women thou.' 



Ah ! knew'st thou of the end, when firrt 
That Babe was on thy bosom nurs'd? — 
Or when He tottered round thy knee 
Did thy great sorrow dawn on thee ? — 



AP^E. 43 

And through His boyhood, year by year 

Eating with Him the Passover, 

Didst thou discern confusedly 

That holier sacrament, when He, 

The bitter cup about to quaff, 

Should break the bread and eat thereof? — 

Or came not yet the knowledge, even 

Till on some day forecast in Heaven 

His feet passed through thy door to press 

Upon His Father's business ? — 

Or still was God's high secret kept? 

Nay, but I think the whisper crept 
Like growth through childhood. Work and play, 
Things common to the course of day, 
Awed thee with meanings unfulfill'd ; 
And all through girlhood, something stilFd 
Thy senses like the birth of light. 
When thou hast trimmed thy lamp at night 
Or washed thy garments in the stream ; 
To whose white bed had come the dream 
That He was thine and thou wast His 
Who feeds among the field-lilies. 
O solemn shadow of the end 



44 AVE, 

In that wise spirit long contained ! 
O awful end I and those unsaid 
Long years when It was Finished I 

Mind'st thou not (when the twilight gone 
Left darkness in the house of John,) 
Between the naked window-bars 
That spacious vigil of the stars ? — 
For thou, a watcher even as they, 
Wouldst rise from where throughout the day 
Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor ; 
And, finding the fixed terms endure 
Of day and night which never brought 
Sounds of His coming chariot, 
Wouldst lift through cloud-waste unexplor'd 
Those eyes which said, ' How long, O Lord?* 
Then that disciple whom He loved, 
Well heeding, haply would be moved 
To ask thy blessing in His name ; 
And that one thought in both, the same 
Though silent, then would clasp ye round 
To weep together, — tears long bound, 
Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow. 
Yet, ' Surely I come quickly,' — so 



A VE. 4'5 

He said, from life and death gone home. 
Amen : even so, Lord Jesus, come ! 

But oh ! what human tongue can speak 
That day when Michael came * to break 
From the tir'd spirit, like a veil, 
Its covenant with Gabriel 
Endured at length unto the end ? 
What human thought car. apprehend 
That mystery of motherhood 
When thy Beloved at length renewM 
The sweet communion severed, — 
His left hand underneath thine head 
And His right hand embracing thee ? — 
Lo ! He was thine, and this is He ! 

Soul, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope, 
That lets me see her standing up 
Where the light of the Throne is bright ? 
Unto the left, unto the right. 
The cherubim, arrayed, conjoint, 
Float inward to a golden point, 
And from between the seraphim 
The glory issues for a hymn. 
A Church legend of the Blessed Virgin's death 



46 AVE. 

y 

O Mary Mother, be not loth 
To listen, — thou whom the stars clothe, 
Who seest and mayst not be seen I 
Hear us at last, O Mary Queen ! 
Into our shadow bend thy face, 
Bowing thee from the secret place, 
O Mary Virgin, full of grace I 



47 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

• Who rules these lands ? * the Pilgrim said. 

' Stranger, Queen Blanchelys/ 

* And who has thus harried them ? ' he said. 

* It was Duke Luke did this : 

God's ban be his I * 

The Pilgrim said : ' Where is your housed 
Fll rest there, with your will.* 

• You've but to climb these blackened bought 

And you'll see it over the hill. 
For it burns still.' 

* Which road, to seek your Queen ? * said he. 

* Nay, nay, but with some wound 
You'll fly back hither, it may be, 

And by your blood i' the ground 
My place be found.* 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

* Friend, stay in peace. God keep your head. 

And mine, where I will go ; 
For He is here and there,' he said. 

He passed the hill-side, slow, 
And stood below. 

The Queen sat idle by her loom ; 

She heard the arras stir, 
And looked up sadly : through the room 

The sweetness sickened her 
Of musk and myrrh. 

Her women, standing two and two, 

In silence combed the fleece. 
The pilgrim said, ' Peace be with you, 

Lady ; * and bent his knees. 
She answered, ' Peace.* 

Her eyes were like the wave within ; 

Like water-reeds the poise 
Of her soft body, dainty thin ; 

And like the water's noise 
Her plaintive voice. 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP, 49 

For him, the stream had never weird 

In desert tracts malign 
So sweet ; nor had he ever felt 

So faint in the sunshine 
Of Palestine. 

Right so, he knew that he saw weep 

Each night through every dream 
The Queen's own face, confused in sleep 

With visages supreme 
Not known to him. 



• Lady,* he said, * your lands lie burnt 

And waste : to meet your foe 
All fear : this I have seen and learnt 

Say that it shall be so, 
And I will go.' 

She gazed at him. * Your cause is just, 

For I have heard tlie same : ' 
He said : ' God's strength shall be my trust. 

Fall it to good or grame, 
*Tis in His name.* 



50 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

* Sir, you are thanked. My cause is dead 

Why should you toil to break 
A grave, and fall therein ? * she said. 
He did not pause but spake : 
' For my vow's sake.' 

* Can such vows be. Sir — to God's ear, 

Not to God's will ? ' ' My vow 
Remains : God heard me there as here. 
He said with reverent brow, 
' Both then and now.' 



They gazed together, he and she. 

The minute while he spoke ; 
And when he ceased, she suddenly 

Looked round upon her folk 
As though she woke. 

• Fight, Sir,* she said : * my prayers in pain 

Shall be your fellowship.* 
He whispered one among her tram, — 

' To-morrow bid her keep 
This staff and scrip.* 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 51 

She sent him a sharp sword, whose belt 

About his body there 
As sweet as her own arms he felt. 

He kissed its blade, all bare, 
Instead of her. 

She sent him a green banner wrought 

With one white hly stem. 
To bind his lance with when he fought. 

He writ upon the same 
And kissed her name. 

She sent him a white shield, whereon 

She bade that he should trace 
His will. He blent fair hues that shone^ 

And in a golden space 
He kissed her face. 

Bom of the day that died, that eve 

Now dying sank to rest ; 
As he, in Hkewise taking leave, 

Once with a heaving breast 
Looked to the west. 



52 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

And there the sunset skies unseal'd, 
Like lands he never knew, 

Beyond to-morrow's battle-field 
Lay open out of view 
To ride into. 



Next day tiU dark the women pray'd : 

Nor any might know there 
How the fight went : the Queen has bade 

That there do come to her 
No messenger. 

The Queen is pale, her maidens ail ; 

And to the organ-tones 
They sing but faintly, who sang well 

The matin-orisons, 
The lauds and nones. 

Lo, Father, is thine ear inclin'd, 
And hath thine angel pass'd? 

For these thy watchers now are blind 
With vigil, and at last 
Dizzy with fast. 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 53 

Weak now to them the voice o' the priest 

As any trance affords ; 
And when each anthem failed and ceas'd, 

It seemed that the last chords 
Still sang the words. 

' Oh what is the light that shines so red ? 

'Tis long since the sun set ; ' 
Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid : 

* 'Twas dim but now, and yet 
The light is great.' 

Quoth the other : ' 'Tis our sight is dazed 

That we see flame i' the air.' 
But the Queen held her brows and gazed, 

And said, ' It is the glare 
Of torches there.' 



' Oh what are the sounds that rise and spread ? 

All day it was so still ; ' 
Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid : 

* Unto the furthest hill 
The air they fill.' 



54 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

Quoth the other : ' 'Tis our sense is blurr'd 

With all the chants gone by.' 
But the Queen held her breath and heard, 

And said, ' It is the cry 
Of Victory.' 

The first of all the rout was sound, 
The next were dust and flame, 

And then the horses shook the ground : 
And in the thick of them 
A still band came. 

* Oh what do ye bring out of the fight, 

Thus hid beneath these boughs ? ' 

* Thy conquering guest returns to-night, 

^nd yet shall not carouse, 
Queen, in thy house.' 

' Uncover ye his face,' she said. 

* O changed in little space ! ' 
She cried, ' O pale that was so red \ 

O God, O God of grace ! 
Cover his face.' 



. THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

His sword was broken in his hand 
Where he had kissed the blade. 

' O soft steel that could not withstand ! 
O my hard heart unstayed, 
That prayed and prayed ! ' 

His bloodied banner crossed his mouth 
Where he had kissed her name. 

' O east, and west, and north, and south, 
Fair flew my web, for shame, 
To guide Death's aim ! ' 

The tints were shredded from his shield 
Where he had kissed her face. 

' Oh, of all gifts that I could yield, 
Death only keeps its place. 
My gift and grace ! ' 

Then stepped a damsel to her side, 
And spoke, and needs must weep : 

* For his sake, lady, if he died. 
He prayed of thee to keep 
This staff and scrip.' 



55 



56 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

That night they hung above her bed, 

Till morning wet with tears. 
Year after year above her head 

Her bed his token v/ears, 
Five years, ten years. 

That night the passion of her grief 
Shook them as there they hung. 

Each year the wind that shed the leaf 
Shook them and in its tongue 
A message flung. 

And once she woke with a clear mind 

That letters writ to calm 
Her soul lay in the scrip ; to find 

Only a torpid balm 
And dust of palm. 

They shook far off with palace sport 
When joust and dance were rife ; 

And the hunt shook them from the court ; 
For hers, in peace or strife, 
Was a Queen's life. 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. ^y 

A Queen's death now : as now they shake 

To gusts in chapel dim, — 
Hung where she sleeps, not seen to wake 

(Carved lovely white and slim), 
With them by him. 

Stand up to-day, still armed, with her, 

Good knight, before His brow 
Who then as now was here and there, 

Who had in mind thy vow 
Then even as now. 

The lists are set in Heaven to-day, 

The bright pavilions shine ; 
Fair hangs thy shield, and none gainsay ; 

The trumpets sound in sign 
That she is thine. 

Not tithed with days' and years' decease 

He pays thy wage He owed, 
But with imperishable peace 

Here in His own abode. 
Thy jealous God. 



58 



A LAST CONFESSION. 

(Regno Lomhardo-Veneto^ 1848.) 

♦ ♦♦♦»♦*•• 

Our Lombard country-girls along the coast 
Wear daggers in their garters ; for they know 
That they might hate another girl to death 
Or meet a German lover. Such a knife 
I bought her, with a hilt of horn and pearl. 

Father, you cannot know of all my thoughts 
That day in going to meet her, — that last day 
For the last time, she said ; — of all the love 
And all the hopeless hope that she might change 
And go back with me. Ah I and everywhere, 
At places we both knew along the road, 
Some fresh shape of herself as once she was 
Grew present at my side ; until it seemed — 



A LAST CONFESSION. 59 

So close they gathered round me — tliey would all 

Be with me when I reached the spot at last, 

To plead my cause with her against herself 

So changed. O Father, if you knew all this 

You cannot know, then you would know too, Father, 

And only then, if God can pardon me. 

What can be told Til tell, if you will hear. 

I passed a village-fair upon my road. 
And thought, being empty-handed, I would take 
Some little present : such might prove, I said, 
Either a pledge between us, or (God help me I) 
A parting gift. And there it was I bought 
The knife I spoke of, such as women wear. 

That day, some three hours afterwards, I tound 
For" certain, it must be a parting gift. 
And, standing silent now at last, I looked 
Into her scornful face ; and heard the sea 
Still trying hard to din into my ears 
Some speech it knew which still might change ner heart 
If only it could make me understand. 
One moment thus. Another, and her face 
Seemed further off than the last line of sea, 



6o A LAST CONFESSION. 

So tliat I thought, if now she were to speak 
1 could not hear her. Then again I knew 
All, as we stood together on the sand 
At Iglio, in the first thin shade o* the hills. 

*Take it,* I said, and held it out to her, 
While the hilt glanced within my trembling hold ; 
* Take it and keep it for my sake,' I said. 
Her neck unbent not, neither did her eyes 
Move, nor her foot left beating of the sand ; 
Only she put it by from her and laughed. 

Father, you hear my speech and not her laugh ; 
But God heard that. Will God remember all ? 

It was another laugh than the sweet sound 
Which rose from her sweet childish heart, that day 
Eleven years before, when first I found her 
Alone upon the hill-side ; and her curls 
Shook down in the warm grass as she looked up 
Out of her curls in my eyes bent to hers. 
She might have served a painter to portray 
That heavenly child which in the latter days 
Shall walk between the lion and the lamb. 



A LAST CONFESSION. bi 

i had been for nights in hiding, worn and sick 

And hardly fed ; and so her words at first 

Seemed fitful like the talking of the trees 

And voices in the air that knew my name. 

And I remember that I sat me down 

Upon the slope with her, and thought the worM 

Must be all over or had never been, 

We seemed there so alone. And soon she told m«» 

Her parents both were gone away from her. 

I thought perhaps she meant that they had died ; 

But when I asked her this, she looked again 

Into my face, and said that yestereve 

They kissed her long, and wept and made her weep. 

And gave her all the bread they had with them. 

And then had gone together up the hill 

Where we were sitting now, and had walked on 

Into the great red light ; ' and so,* she said, 

' I have come up here too ; and when this evening 

They step out of the light as they stepped in, 

I shall be here to kiss them.' And she laughed. 

Then I bethought me suddenly of the famine ; 
And how the church-steps throughout all the town, 
Vhen last I had been there a month ago, 



62 A LAST CONFESSION. 

Swarmed with starved folk ; and how the bread was 

weighed 
By Austrians armed ; and women that I knew 
For wives and mothers walked the pubhc street, 
Saying aloud that if their husbands feared 
To snatch the children's food, themselves would stay 
Till they had earned it there. So then this child 
Was piteous to me ; for all told me then 
Her parents must have left her to God's chance, 
To man's or to the Church's charity, 
Because of the great famine, rather than 
To watch her growing thin between tlieir knees. 
With that, God took my mother's voice and spoke 
And sights and sounds came back and things long 

since. 
And all my childhood found me on the hills ; 
And so I took her with me. 

I was young, 
Scarce man then. Father ; but the cause which gave 
The wounds I die of now had brought me then 
Some wounds already; and I lived alone. 
As any hiding hunted man must live. 
It was no easy thing to keep a child 
In safety ; for herself it was not safe. 



A LAST CONFESS/ON. 63 

And doubled my own danger ; but I knew 
That God would help me. 

Yet a little while 
Pardon me, Father, if I pause. I think 
r have been speaking to you of some matters 
There was no need to speak of, have I not? 
You do not know how clearly those things stood 
Within my mind, which I have spoken of. 
Nor how they strove for utterance. Life all past 
Is like the sky when the sun sets in it, 
Clearest where furthest off. 

I told you how 
She scorned my parting gift and laughed. And yet 
A woman's laugh's another thing sometimes : 
I think they laugh in Heaven. I know last night 
I dreamed I saw into the garden of God, 
Where women walked whose painted images 
I have seen with candles round them in the chiirch. 
They bent this way and that, one to another, 
Playing : and over the long golden hair 
Of each there floated like a ring of fire [she rose 

Which when she stooped stooped with her, and when 
Rose with her. Then a breeze flew in among them. 



64 A LAST CONFESS/ON. 

As if a window had been opened in heaven 

For God to give his blessing from, before 

This world of ours should set ; (for in my dream 

I thought our world was setting, and the sun 

F'ared, a spent taper ;) and beneath that gust 

The rings of light quivered like forest-leaves. 

Then all the blessed maidens who were there 

Stood up together, as it were a voice 

That called them ; and they threw their tresses back, 

And smote their palms, and all laughed up at once, 

For the strong heavenly joy they had in them 

To hear God bless the world. Wherewith I woke : 

And looking round, I saw as usual 

That she was standing there with her long locks 

Pressed to her side ; and her laugh ended theirs. 

For always when I see her now, she laughs. 
And yet her childish laughter haunts me too, 
The Hfe of this dead terror ; as in days 
When she, a child, dwelt with me. I must tell 
Something of those days yet before the end. 

I brought her from the city — one such day 
When she was still a merry, loving child, — 



A LAST COIVFESSION. 65 

The earliest gift I mind my giving her ; 

A little image of a flying Love 

Made of our colored glass-ware, in his hands 

A dart of gilded metal and a torch. 

And him she kissed and me, and fain would know 

Why were his poor eyes blindfold, why the wings 

And why the arrow. What I knew I told 

Of Venus and of Cupid, — strange old tales. 

And when she heard that he could rule the loves 

Of men and women, still she shook her head 

And wondered ; and, ' Nay, nay,* she murmured still 

* So strong, and he a younger child than 1 1 * 

And then she*d have me fix him on the wall 

Fronting her little bed ; and then again 

She needs must fix him there herself, because 

I gave him to her and she loved him so, 

And he should make her love me better yet, 

If women loved the more, the more they grew. 

But the fit place upon the wall was high 

For her, and so I held her in my arms : 

And each time that the heavy pruning-hook 

I gave her for a hammer slipped away 

As it would often, still she laughed and laughed 

And kissed and kissed me. But amid her mirth. 



66 A LAST CONFESSION. 

Just as she hung the image on the nail, 
[t slipped and all its fragments strewed the ground 
\nd as it fell she screamed, for in her hand 
The dart had entered deeply and drawn blood. 
And so her laughter turned to tears : and ' Oh ! * 
I said, the while I bandaged the small hand, — 
' That I should be the first to make you bleed. 
Who love and love and love you ! ' — kissing still 
The fingers till I got her safe to bed. 
And still she sobbed, — * not for the pain at all,* 
She said, ' but for the Love, the poor good Love 
You gave me.' So she cried herself to sleep. 

Another later thing comes back to me. 
'Twas in those hardest foulest days of all, 
When still from his shut palace, sitting clean 
Above the splash of blood, old Metternich 
(May his soul die, and never-dying worms 
Feast on its pain for ever !) used to thin 
His year's doomed hundreds daintily, each month 
Thirties and fifties. This time, as I think, 
Was when his thrift forbade the poor to take 
That evil brackish salt which the dry rocks 
Keep all through winter when the sea draws in. 



A LAST CONFESSION, 67 

The first I heard of it was a chance shot 
In the street here and there, and on the stones 
A stumbling clatter as of horse hemmed round. 
Then, when she saw me hurry out of doors, 
My gun slung at my shoulder and my knife 
Stuck in my girdle, she smoothed down my hair 
And laughed to see me look so brave, and leaped 
Up to my neck and kissed me. She was still 
A child ; and yet that kiss was on my lips 
So hot all day where the smoke shut us in. 

For now, being always with her, the first love 
I had — the father's, brother's love — was changed, 
I think, in somewise ; like a holy thought 
Which is a prayer before one knows of it. 
The first time I perceived this, I remember. 
Was once when after hunting I came home 
Weary, and she brought food and fruit for me, 
And sat down at my feet upon the floor 
Leaning against my side. But when I felt 
Her sweet head reach from that low seat of h^ers 
So high as to be laid upon my heart, 
I turned and looked upon my darling there 
And marked for the first time how tall she was ; 



68 A LAST CONFESSION, 

And my heart beat with so much violence 

Under her cheek, I thought she could not choose 

But wonder at it soon and ask me why ; 

And so I bade her rise and eat with me. 

And when, remembering all and counting back 

The time, I made out fourteen years for her 

And told her so, she gazed at me with eyes 

As of the sky and sea on a gray day, [me 

And drew her long hands tlirough her hair, and asked 

If she was not a woman ; and then laughed : 

And as she stooped in laughing, I could see 

Beneath the growing throat the breasts half globed 

Like folded lilies deepset in the stream. 

Yes, let me think of her as then ; for so 
Her image, Father, is not like the sights 
Which come when you are gone. She had a mouth 
Made to bring death to life, — the underlip 
Sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself. 
Her face was ever pale, as when one stoops 
Over wan water ; and the dark crisped hair 
And the hair's shadow made it paler still : — 
Deep-serried locks, the darkness of the cloud 
Where the moon's gaze is set in eddying gloom. 



A LAST CONFESSION. 6q 

Her body bore her neck as the tree's stem 

Bears the top branch ; and as the branch sustains 

The flower of the year's pride, her high neck bore 

That face made wonderful with night and day. 

Her voice was swift, yet ever the last words 

Fell lingeringly ; and rounded finger-tips 

She had, that clung a little where they touched 

And then were gone o' the instant. Her great eyes. 

That sometimes turned half dizzily beneath 

The passionate lids, as faint, when she would speak. 

Had also in them hidden springs of mirth, 

Which under the dark lashes evermore 

Shook to her laugh, as when a bird flies low 

Between the water and the willow-leaves, 

And the shade quivers till he wins the light. 



I was a moody comrade to her then, 
For all the love I bore her. Italy, 
The weeping desolate mother, long has claimed 
Her son's strong arms to lean on, and their hands 
To lop the poisonous thicket from her path. 
Cleaving her way to light. And from her need 
Had sjrown the fashion of my whole poor life 



TO A LAST CONFESSION, 

Which I was proud to yield her, as my father 

Had yielded his. And this had come to be 

A game to play, a love to clasp, a hate 

To wreak, all things together that a man 

Needs for his blood to ripen : till at times 

All else seemed shadows, and I wondered still 

To see such life pass muster and be deemed 

Time's bodily substance. In those hours, no doubt, 

To the young girl my eyes were like my soul, — 

Dark wells of death-in-life that yearned for day. 

And though she ruled me always, I remember 

That once when I was thus and she still kept 

Leaping about the place and laughing, I 

Did almost chide her ; whereupon she knelt 

And putting her two hands into my breast 

Sang me a song. Are these tears in my eyes? 

'Tis long since I have wept for anything. 

I thought that song forgotten out of mind, 

And now, just as I spoke of it, it came 

All back. It is but a rude thing, ill rhymed, 

Such as a blind man chaunts and his dog hears 

Holding the platter, when the children run 

To merrier sport and leave him. Thus it goes : — 



/I LAST CONFESSION, 



71 



La bella donna * 
Piangendo disse : 
' Come son fisse 
Le stelle in cielo ! 
Quel fiato anelo 
Dello stanco sole, 
Quanto m' assonna ! 
E la luna, macchiata 



She wept, sweet lady, 
And said in weeping : 
' What spell is keeping 
The stars so steady ? 
Why does the power 
Of the sun's noon-hour 
To sleep so move me ? 
And the moon in heaven. 
Stained where she passes 
As a worn-out glass is, — 
Weaiily driven. 
Why walks shi above me? 

' Stars, moon, and sun too, 
I'm tired of either 
And all together I 
Whom speak they unto 
That I should listen ? 
For very surely. 
Though my arms and shoulders 
Dazzle beholders, 
And my eyes glisten, 
All's nothing purely I 
What are words said for 
At all about them, 
If he they are made for 
Can do without them ? * 

She laughed, sweet lady. 
And said in laughing : 
His hand clings half in 



My own already I 
Oh I do you love me ? 
Oh ! speak of passion 
In no new fashion, 
No loud inveighings, 
But the old sayings 
You once said of me. 



' You said : " As siunmer, 
Through boughs grown brittls. 
Comes back a little 
Ere frosts benumb her, — 
So bring'st thou to me 
All leaves and flowers, 
Though autumn's gloomy 
To-day in the bowers." 

' Oh ! does he love me^ 
When my voice teaches 
The very speeches 
He then spoke of me ? 
Alas I what flavor 
StUl with me lingers? * 
(But she laughed as my kissea 
Glowed in her fingers 
With love's old blisses ) 
* Oh I what one favor 
Remains to woo him, 
Whose whole poor savor 
Belongs not to him.' 



72 



A LAST CONFESSIOAf. 

Come uno specchio 
Logoro e vecchio, — 
Fa»:cia affannata, 
Che cosa vuole ? 

* Ch^ stelle, luna, e sole, 
Ciascun m' annoja 
E m' annojano insieme ; 
Non me ne preme 
N^ ci prendo gioja. 
E veramente, 
Che le spalle sien franch« 
E le braccia bianche 
E il seno caldo e tondo, 
Non mi fa niente. 
Ch^ cosa al mondo 
Posso piu far di questi 
S« non piacciono a te, come dicesti 

La donna rise 

E riprese ridendo : — 

* Questa mano che prendo 
E dunque mia ? 

Tu m' ami dunque ? 

Dimmelo ancora, 

Non in modo qualunq ic, 

Ma le parole 

Belle e precise 

Che dicesti pria. 

* Siccoine suole 
La state talora 



A LAST CONFESSION. 71 

(Dicesti) un qualcke istante 
Tornare innanzi inverno-^ 
Cosl tu fai ch* io scerno 
Le foglie tutte quante^ 
Ben ch' io certo tenessi 
Per passato V autunno, 

* Eccolo il mio alunno ! 
Io debbo insegnargli 
Quei cari detti istessi 
Ch' ei mi disse una volta ! 
Oim^ ! Che cosa dargh,' 
(Ma ridea piano piano 
Dei bad in sulla mano,) 
Ch* ei non m' abbia da lungo tempo tolta ? 

That I should sing upon this bed ! — with you 
To listen, and such words still left to say 1 
Yet was it I that sang ? The voice seemed hers. 
As on the very day she sang to me ; 
When, having done, she took out of my hand 
Something that I had played with all the while 
And laid it down beyond my reach ; and so 
Turning my face round till it fronted hers, — 
' Weeping or laughing, which was best?' she said. 

But these are foolish tales. How should I show 
The heart that glowed then with love's heat, each day 



74 A LAST CONFESSION. 

More and more brightly ? — when for long years now 
The very flame that flew about the heart, 
And gave it fiery wings, has come to be 
The lapping blaze of hell's environment 
Whose tongues all bid the molten heart despair. 

Yet one more thing comes back on me to-nigh 
Which I may tell you : for it bore my soul 
Dread firstlings of the brood that rend it now. 
It chanced that in our last year's wanderings 
We dwelt at Monza, far away from home. 
If home we had : and in the Duomo there 
I sometimes entered with her when she prayed. 
An image of Our Lady stands there, wrought 
In marble by some great Italian hand 
In the great days when she and Italy 
Sat on one throne together : and to her 
And to none else my loved one told her heart. 
She was a woman then ; and as she knelt, — 
Her sweet brow in the sweet brow's shadow there, • 
They seemed two kindred forms whereby our land 
(Whose work still serves the world for miracle) 
Made manifest herself in womanhood. 
Father, the day I speak of was the first 



A LAST CONFESSION, jy 

For weeks that I had borne her company 

Into the Duomo ; and those weeks had been 

Much troubled, for then first the glimpses came 

Of some impenetrable restlessness 

Growing in her to make her changed and cold. 

And as we entered there that day, I bent 

My eyes on the fair Image, and I said 

Within my heart, 'Oh turn her heart to me!* 

And so I left her to her prayers, and went 

To gaze upon the pride of Monza's shrine,:^ 

Where in the sacristy the light still falls 

Upon the Iron Crown of Italy, 

On whose crowned heads the day has closed, nor yet 

The daybreak gilds another head to crown. 

But coming back, I wondered when I saw 

That the sweet Lady of her prayers now stood 

Alone without her ; until further off. 

Before some new Madonna gayly decked, 

Tinselled and gewgawed, a slight German toy, 

. saw her kneel, still praying. At my step 

She rose, and side by side we left the church. 

I was much moved, and sharply questioned her 

Of her transferred devotion ; but she seemed 

Stubborn and heedless ; till she lightly laughed 



76 A LAST CQNFESSIOI^. 

And said : * The old Madonna ? Aye indeed, 

She had my old thoughts, — this one has my new.* 

Then silent to the soul I held my way : 

And from the fountains of the public place 

Unto the pigeon-haunted pinnacles, 

Bright wings and water winnowed the bright air ; 

And stately with her laugh's subsiding smile 

She went, with clear-swayed waist and towering neck 

And hands held light before her ; and the face 

Which long had made a day in my life's night 

Was night in day to me ; as all men's eyes 

Turned on her beauty, and she seemed to tread 

Beyond my heart to the world made for her. 

Ah there ! my wounds will snatch my sense agam ; 
The pain comes billowing on like a full cloud 
Of thunder, and the flash that breaks from it 
Leaves my brain burning. That's the wound he gave, 
The Austrian whose white coat I still made match 
With his white face, only the two were red 
As suits his trade. The devil makes them wear 
White for a livery, that the blood may show 
Braver that brings them to him. So he looks 
Sheer o'er tlie field and knows his own at once. 



A LAST CONFESSION. 77 

Give tne a draught of water in that cup ; 
My voice feels thick ; perhaps you do not hear ^ 
But you must hear. If you mistake my words 
And so absolve me, I am sure the blessing 
Will burn my soul. If you mistake my words 
And so absolve me, Father, the great sin 
Is yours, not mine : mark this : your soul shall burn 
With mine for it. I have seen pictures where 
Souls burned with Latin shriekings in their mouths : 
Shall my end be as theirs ? Nay, but I know 
' Tis you shall shriek in Latin. Some bell rings. 
Rings through my brain : it strikes the hour in hell. 



You see I cannot. Father ; I have tried, 
But cannot, as you see. These twenty times 
Beginning, I have come to the same point 
And stopped. Beyond, there are but broken words 
Which will not let you understand my tale. 
It is that then we have her with us here, 
As when she wrung her hair out in my dream 
I'o-night, till all the darkness reeked of it. 
Her hair is always wet, for she has kept 
Its tresses wrapped about her side for years ; 



78 A LAST CONFESSION, 

And when she wrung them round over the floor, 
I heard the blood between her fingers hiss ; 
So that I sat up in my bed and screamed 
Once and again ; and once to once, she laughed. 
Look that you turn not now, — she's at your back 
Gather your rope up, Father, and keep close, 
Or she'll sit down on it and send you mad. 



At Igllo in the first thin shade o' the hills 
The sand is black and red. The black was black 
When what was spilt that day sank into it, 
And the red scarcely darkened. There I stood 
This night with her, and saw the sand the same. 



What would you have me tell you ? Father, father, 
How shall I make you know ? You have not known 
The dreadful soul of woman, who one day 
Forgets the old and takes the new to heart. 
Forgets what man remembers, and therewith 
Forgets the man. Nor can I clearly tell 
How the change happened between her and me. 
Her eyes looked on me from an emptied heart 



A LAST CONFESSION. 



79 



WTien most my heart was full of her ; and still 

In every corner of myself I sought 

To find what service failed her ; and no less 

Than in the good time past, there all was hers. 

What do you love ? Your Heaven ? Conceive it spread 

For one first year of all eternity 

All round you with all joys and gifts of God ; 

And then when most your soul is blent with it 

And all yields song together, — then it stands 

O' the sudden like a pool that once gave back 

Your image, but now drowns it and is clear 

Again, — or like a sun bewitched, that burns 

Your shadow from you, and still shines in sight 

How could you bear it ? Would you not cry out. 

Among those eyes grown blind to you, those ears 

That hear no more your voice you heai the same, — 

* God ! what is left but hell for company. 

But hell, hell, hell?'— until the name so breathed 

Whirled with hot wmd and sucked you down in fire? 

Even so I stood the day her empty heart 

Left her place empty in our home, while yet 

1 knew not why she went nor where she went 

Nor how to reach her : so I stood the day 

When to my prayers at last one sight of ner 



8^ A LAST CONFESSION. 

Was granted, and I looked on heaven made pale 
With scorn, and heard heaven mock me m that laugh. 

O sweet, long sweet ! Was that some ghost of you 
Even as your ghost that haunts me now, — twin shapes 
Of feai and hatred? May I find you yet 
Mine when death wakes ? Ah ! be it even in flame, 
We may have sweetness yet, if you but say 
As once in childish sorrow : ' Not my pain, 
My pain was nothing : oh your poor poor love, 
Your broken love I ' 

My Father, have I not 
Yet told you the last things of that last day 
On which I went to meet her by the sea ? 

God, O God ! but I must tell you all. 

Midway upon my Journey, when I stopped 
To buy the dagger at the village fair, 

1 saw two cursed rats about the place 

I knew for spies — blood-sellers both. That day 
Was not yet over ; for three hours to come 
I prized my life : and so I looked around 
For safety. A poor painted mountebank 
Was playing tricks and shouting in a crowd. 



A LAST CONFESSION. 8i 

1 knew he must have heard my name, so I 

Pushed past and whispered to him who I was, 

And 3f my danger. Straight he hustled me 

Into his booth, as it were in the trick, 

And brought me out next minute with my face 

All smeared in patches and a zany's gown ; 

And there I handed him his cups and balls 

And swung the sand-bags round to clear the ring 

For half an hour. The spies came once and looked ; 

And while they stopped, and made all sights and sounds 

Sharp to my startled senses, I remember 

A woman laughed above me. I looked up 

And saw where a brown-shouldered harlot leaned 

Half through a tavern window thick with vine. 

Some man had come behind her in the room 

And caught her by her arms, and she had turned 

With that coarse empty laugh on him, as now 

He munched her neck with kisses, while the vine 

Crawled in her back. 

And three hours afterwards. 
When she that I had run all risks to meet 
Laughed as I told you, my life burned to death 
Within me, for 1 thought it like the laugh 
Heard at the fair. She had not left me long ; 



82 A LAST CONFESSION. 

But all she might have changed to, or might change tOs 
(I know not since — she never speaks a word — ) 
Seemed in that laugh. Have I not told you yet, 
Not told you all this time what happened, Father, 
When I had offered her the little knife, 
And bade her keep it for my sake that loved her, 
And she had laughed ? Have I not told you yet ? 

• Take it,' I said to her the second time, 
' Take it and keep it/ And then came a fire 
That burnt my hand ; and then the fire was blood, 
And sea and sky were blood and fire, and all 
The day was one red blindness ; till it seemed 
Within the whirling brain's entanglement 
That she or I or all things bled to death. 
And then I found her lying at my feet 
And knew that I had stabbed her, and saw still 
The look she gave me when she took the knife 
Deep in her heart, even as I bade her then, 
And fell, and her stiff bodice scooped the sand 
Into her bosom. 

And she keeps it, see. 
Do you not see she keeps it } — there, beneath 
Wet fingers and wet tresses, in her heart. 



A LAST CONFESSION, 83 

For look you, when she stirs her hand, it shows 
The little hilt of horn and pearl, — even such 
A dagger as our women of the coast 
Twist in their garters. 

Father, I have done . 
And from her side now she unwinds the thick 
Dark hair ; all round her side it is wet through, 
But like the sand at Iglio does not change. 
Now you may see the dagger clearly. Father, 
I have told all : tell me at once what hope 
Can reach me still. For now she draws it out 
Slowly, and only smiles as yet : look, Father, 
She scarcely smiles : but I shall hear her laugh 
Soon, when she shows the crimson steel to God. 



DANTE AT VERONA. 

« Yea, thou shalt learn how salt his food who fares 

Upon another's bread, — how steep his path 
Who treadeth up and down another's stairs.' 

(^Div. Com. Parad. xvii.) 
* Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice.' 

(^Div. Com, Purg. xxx.) 

Of Florence and of Beatrice 
Servant and singer from of old, 
O'er Dante's heart in youth had toU'd 

The knell that gave his Lady peace ; 
And now in manhood flew the dart 
Wherewith his City pierced his heart. 

Yet if his Lady's home above 

Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul ; 

And if his City held control 
To cast the body fortii to rove, 

The soul could soar from earth's vain throng, 

And Heaven and Hell fulfil the song 



DANTE AT VERONA. 85 

Follow his feet's appointed way ; — 

But little light we find that clears 

The darkness of the exiled years. 
Follow his spirit's journey : — nay, 

What fires are blent, what winds are blown 

On paths his feet may treai alone? 

Yet of the twofold life he led 

In chainless thought and fettered will 
Some glimpses reach us, — somewhat still 

Of the steep stairs and bitter bread, - 
Of the soul's quest whose stern avow 
For years had made him haggard now 

Alas ! the Sacred Song whereto 

Both heaven and earth had set their hand 

Not only at Fame's gate did stand 
Knocking to claim the passage through, 

But toiled to ope that heavier door 

Which Florence shut for evermore. 

Shall not his birth's baptismal Town 
One last high presage yet fulfil, 
And at that font in Florence still 



86 DANTE AT VERONA. 

His forehead take the laurel-crown ? 
O God ! or snail dead souls deny 
The undying soul its prophecy 

Aye, *tis their hour. Not yet forgot 
The bitter words he spoke that day 
When for some great charge far away 

Her rulers his acceptance sought. 
' And if I go, who stays ? ' — so rose 
His scorn : — ' And if I stay, who goes ? 

' Lo I thou art gone now, and we stay : * 
(The curled lips mutter) : ' and no star 
Is from thy mortal path so far 

A.S streets where childhood knew the way. 
To Heaven and Hell thy feet may win, 
But thine own house they come not in.* 

Therefore, the loftier rose the song 
To touch the secret things of God, 
The deeper pierced the hate that trod 

On base men's track who wrought the wrong , 
Till the soul's effluence came to be 
Its own exceeding agony. 



DANTE AT VERONA, 87 

Arriving only to depart, 

From court to court, from land to land, 

Like flame within the naked hand 
His body bore his burning heart 

That still on Florence strove to bring 

God's fire for a burnt offering. 

Even such was Dante's mood, when now, 

Mocked for long years with Fortune's sport, 

He dwelt at yet another court, 
There where Verona's knee did bow 

And her voice hailed with all acclaim 

Can Grande della Scala's name. 

As that lord's kingly guest awhile 

His life we follow ; through the days 

Which walked in exile's barren ways, — 
The nights which still beneath one smile 

Heard through all spheres one song increase, « 

* Even I, even I am Beatrice.' 

At Can La Scala's court, no doubt. 
Due reverence did his steps attend • 
The ushers on his path would bend 



88 DANTE AT VERONA. 

At ingoing as at going out ; 
The penmen waited on his call 
At council-board, the grooms in hall. 

And pages hushed their laughter down, 
And gay squires stilled the merry stir, 
When he passed up the dais-chamber 

With set brows lordlier than a frown ; 
And tire-maids hidden among these 
Drew close their loosened bodices. 

Perhaps the priests, (exact to span 
All God's circumference,) if at whiles 
They found him wandering in their aisles, 

Grudged ghostly greeting to the man 
By whom, though not of ghostly guild. 
With Heaven and Hell men's hearts were fillU 

And the court-poets (he, forsooth, 

A whole world's poet strayed to court !) 
Had for his scorn their hate*s retort. 

He'd meet them flushed with easy youth, 
Hot on their errands. Like noon-flies 
They vexed him in the ears and eyes. 



DANTE AT VERONA, 89 

But at this court, peace still must wrench 

Her chaplet from the teeth of war : 

By day they held high watch afar, 
At night they cried across the trench ; 

And still, in Dante's path, the fierce 

Gaunt soldiers wrangled o'er their spears 

But vain seemed all the strength to him, 
As golden convoys sunk at sea 
Whose wealth might root out penury : 

Because it was not, limb with limb. 
Knit like his heart-strings round the wall 
Of Florence, that ill pride might fall. 

Yet in the tiltyard, when the dust 
Cleared from the sundered press of knights 
Ere yet again it swoops and smites. 

He almost deemed his longing must 
Find force to wield that multitude 
And hurl that strength the way he would. 

How should he move them, — fame and gain 
On all hands calling them at strife ? 
He still might find but his one life 



► DANTE AT VERONA, 

To give, by Florence counted vain ; 

One heart the false hearts made her doubt ; 
One voice she heard once and cast out. 

Oh ! if his Florence could but come, 

A lily-sceptred damsel fair, 

As her own Giotto painted her 
On many shields and gates at home, — 

A lady crowned, at a soft pace 

Riding the lists round to the dais : 

Till where Can Grande rules the lists. 
As young as Truth, as calm as Force, 
She draws her rein now, while her horse 

Bows at the turn of the white wrists ; 
And when each knight within his stall 
Gives ear, she speaks and tells them all : 

AL the foul tale, — truth sworn untrue 
And falsehood's triumph. All the tale? 
Great God ! and must she not prevail 

To fire them ere they heard it through, — 
And hand achieve ere heart could rest 
That high adventure of her quest? 



DANTE AT VERONA. gi 

How would his Florence lead them forth, 

Her bridle ringing as she went ; 

And at the last within her tent, 
' Neath golden lilies worship-worth, 

How queenly would she bend the while 

And thank the victors with her smile I 

Also her lips should turn his way 

And murmur : ' O thou tried and true, 
With whom I wept the long years through 1 

What shall it profit if I say, 

Thee I remember? Nay, through thee 
All ages shall remember me.' 

Peace, Dante, peace ! The task is long, 
The time wears short to compass it. 
Within thine heart such hopes may flit 

And find a voice in deathless song : 
But lo ! as children of man's earth. 
Those hopes are dead before their birth 

Fame tells us that Verona's court 

Was a fair place. The feet might still 
Wander for ever at ^heir will 



^ DANTE AT VERONA, 

In many ways of sweet resort ; 
And still in many a heart around 
The Poet's name due honor found. 

Watch we his steps. He comes upon 
The women at their palm-playing. 
The conduits round the gardens sing 

And meet in scoops of milk-white stone, 
Where wearied damsels rest and hold 
Their hands in the wet spurt of gold. 

One of whom, knowing well that he, 

By some found stern, was mild with them, 
Would run and pluck his garment's hem, 

Saying, ' Messer Dante, pardon me,' — 
Praying that they might hear the song 
Which first of all he made, when young. 

* Donne che avete ' ♦ . . . Thereunto 
Thus would he murmur, having first 
Drawn near the fountain, while she nurs'd 



* < Donne che avete intelletto d' amore : ' — the first can- 
zone of the 'Vita Nuova.' 



DANTE AT VERONA, 93 

His hand against her side : a few 
Sweet words, and scarcely those, half said : 
Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head 

For then the voice said in his heart, 

* Even I, even I am Beatrice ; * 

And his whole life would yearn to cease 
Till having reached his room, apart 

Beyond vast lengths of palace-floor. 

He drew the arras round his door. 

At such times, Dante, thou hast set 

Thy forehead to the painted pane 

Full oft, I know ; and if the rain 
Smote it outside, her fingers met 

Thy brow ; and if the sun fell there, 

Her breath was on thy face and hair. 

Then, weeping, I think certainly 

Thou hast beheld, past sight of eyne, — 

Within another room of thine 
Where now thy body may not be 

But where in thought thou still remam'st, — 

A window often wept against : 



94 DANTE AT VERONA. 

The window thou, a youth, hast sought, 
Flushed in the limpid eventime, 
Ending with daylight the day*s rhyme 

Of her ; v here oftenwhiles her thought 

Held thee — the lamp untrimmed to write — 
In joy through the blue lapse of night. 

At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, 

Guests seldom wept. It was brave sport. 
No doubt, at Can La Scala's court, 

Within the palace and without ; 
Where music, set to madrigals. 
Loitered all day through groves and halls. 

Because Can Grande of his life 
Had not had six-and-twenty years 
As yet. And when the chroniclers 

Tell you of that Vicenza strife 

And of strifes elsewhere, — you must not 
Conceive for church-sooth he had got 

Just nothing in his wits but war : 

Though doubtless 't was the young man's joy 
(Grown with his growth from a mere boy,) 



DANTE AT VERONA, 95 

To mark his ' Viva Cane ! * scare 
The foe's shut front, till it would reel 
All blind with shaken points of steel. 



But there were places — held too sweet 
For eyes that had not the due veil 
Of lashes and clear lids — as well 

In favor as his saddle-seat : 

Breath of low speech he scorned not there 
Nor light cool fingers in his hair. 

Yet if the child whom the sire's plan 
Made free of a deep treasure-chest 
Scoffed it with ill-conditioned jest, — 

We may be sure too that the man 
Was not mere thews, nor all content 
With lewdness swathed in sentiment. 



So you may read and marvel not 
That such a man as Dante — one 
Who, while Can Grande's deeds were done, 

Had drawn his robe round him and thought — 



^ DANTE AT VERONA, 

Now at tlie same guest-table far'd 
Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard.* 

Through leaves and trellis-work the sun 
Left the wine cool within the glass, — 
They feasting where no sun could pass i 

And when the women, all as one. 

Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, 
It was a comely thing, we know. 

But Dante recked not of the wine ; 

Whether the women stayed or went, 

His visage held one stern intent : 
And when the music had its sign 

To breathe upon them for more ease, 

Sometimes he turned and bade it cease. 

And as he spared not to rebuke 

The mirth, so oft in council he 

To bitter truth bore testimony : 
And when the crafty balance shook 

Well poised to make the wrong prevail, 

Then Dante's hand would turn the scale. 

* Uguccione della Faggiuola, Dante's former protector, 
was now his fellow-guest at Verona. 



I 



DAME AT VERONA, 97 

And if some envoy from afar 

Sailed to Verona's sovereign port 

For aid or peace, and all the court 
Fawned on its lord, ' the Mars of war, 

Sole arbiter of life and death,* — 

Be sure that Dante saved his breath. 

And Can La Scala marked askance 

These things, accepting them for shame 
And scorn, till Dante's guestship came 

To be a peevish sufferance : 

His host sought ways to make his day» 
Hateful ; and such have many ways. 

There was a Jester, a foul lout 

Whom the court loved for graceless arts , 

Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts 
Of speech ; a ribald mouth to shout 

In Folly's horny tympanum 

Such things as make the wise man dumb. 

Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so, 
One day when Dante felt perplex'd 
If any day that could come next 



DANTE AT VERONA. 

Were worth the waiting for or no, 
And mute he sat amid their din, — 
Can Grande called the Jester in. 

Rank words, with such, are wif s best wealth. 
Lords mouthed approval ; ladies kept 
Twittering with clustered heads, except 

Some few that took their trains by stealth 
And went. Can Grande shook his hair 
And smote his thighs and laughed i* the air. 

Then, facing on his guest, he cried, — 

' Say, Messer Dante, how it is 

I get out of a clown like this 
More than your wisdom can provide.* 

And Dante : ' *Tis man*s ancient whim 

That still his like seems good to him.' 

Also a tale is told, how once, 
At clearing tables after meat, 
. Piled for a jest at Dante's feet 

Were found the dinner's well-picked bones ; 
So laid, to please the banquet's lord. 
By one who crouched beneath the board. 



» 



DANTE AT VERONA, 99 

Then smiled Can Grande to the rest : — • 
' Our Dante*s tuneful mouth indeed 
Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed ! ' 

* Fair host of mine/ replied the guest, 
* So many bones you'd not descry 
If so it chanced the dog were I.' * 

But wherefore should we turn the grout 

In a drained cup, or be at strife 

From the worn garment of a life 
To rip the twisted ravel out? 

Good needs expounding ; but of ill 

Each hath enough to guess his fill. 

They named him Justicer-at-Law : 
Each month to bear the tale in mind 
Of hues a wench might wear unfin'd 

And of the load an ox might draw ; 
To cavil in the weight of bread 
And to see purse-thieves gibbeted. 



• * Messere, voi non vedreste tant ^ossa se cane iofossi* T}«»- 
point of the reproach is difficult to render, depending as it doe4 
on the literal meaning of the name Cane* 



loo DANTE AT VERONA. 

And when his spirit wove the spell 
(From under even to over-noon 
In converse with itself alone,) 

As high as Heaven, as low as Hell, — 
He would be summoned and must go : 
For had not Gian stabbed Giacomo ? 

Therefore the bread he had to eat 

Seemed brackish, less like corn than tares ; 
And the rush-strown accustomed stairs 

Each day were steeper to his feet ; 
And when the night-vigil was done, 
His brows would ache to fee^ the sun. 

Nevertheless, when from his kin 
There came the tidings how at last 
In Florence a decree was pass*d 

Whereby all banished folk might win 
Free pardon, so a fine were paid 
And act of public penance made, — 

This Dante writ in answer thus, 

Words such as these : ' That clearly they 
In Florence must not have to say, — 



DANTE AT VERONA. loi 

The man abode aloof from us 
Nigh fifteen vears, vet lastly skulk'd 
Hither to candleshrift and mulct. 

' That he was one the Heavens forbid 

To traffic in God's justice sold 

By market-weight of earthly gold, 
Or to bow down over the lid 

Of steaming censers, and so be 

Made clean of manhood's obloquy. 

* That since no gate led, by God's will, 
To Florence, but the one whereat 
The priests and money-changers sat, 

He still would wander ; for that still, 
Even through the body's prison-bars, 
His soul possessed the sun and stars.* 

Such were his words. It is indeed 

For ever well our singers should 

Utter good words and know them good 
Not through song only ; with close heed 

Lest, having spent for the work's sake 

Six days, the man be left to make. 



ro2 DANTE AT VERONA, 

Months o'er Verona, till the feast 

Was come for Florence the Free Town : 
And at the shrine of Baptist John 

The exiles, girt with many a priest 
And carrying candles as they went, 
Were held to mercy of the saint. 

On the high seats in sober state, — 

Gold neck-chains range o'er range below 
Gold screen- work where the lilies grow, — 

The Heads of the Republic sate. 
Marking the humbled face go by 
Each one of his house-enemy. 

And as each proscript rose and stood 
From kneeling in the ashen dust 
On the shrine-steps, some magnate thrust 

A beard into the velvet hood 

Of his front colleague's gown, to see 
The cinders stuck in the bare knee. 

Tosinghi passed, Manelli passed, 
Rinucci passed, each in his place 
But not an Alighieri's face 



DANTE AT VERONA. 103 

Went by that day from first to last 
In the Republic's triumph ; nor 
A foot came home to Dante's door. 

(Respublica — a public thing : 

A shameful shameless prostitute, 

Whose lust with one lord may not suit, 
So takes by turns its revelling 

A night with each, till he at morn 

Is stripped and beaten forth forlorn, 

And leaves her, cursing her. If she. 

Indeed, have not some spice-draught, hid 

In scent under a silver lid, 
To drench his open throat with — he 

Once hard asleep ; and thrust him not 

At dawn beneath the boards to rot. 

Such this Republic ! — not the Maid 

He yearned for ; she who yet should stand 
With Heaven's accepted hand in hand, 

Invulnerable and unbetray'd : 

To whom, even as to God, should be 
Obeisance one with Liberty.) 



104 DANTE AT VERONA. 

Years filled out their twelve moons, and ceased 

One in another ; and alway 

There were the whole twelve hours each day 
And each night as the years increased ; 

And rising moon and setting sun 

Beheld that Dante's work was done. 

What of his work for Florence ? Well 

It was, he knew, and well must be. 

Yet evermore her hate's decree 
Dwelt in his thought intolerable : — 

His body to be burned,* — his soul 

To beat its wings at hope's vain goal. 

What of his work for Beatrice ? 

Now well-nigh was the third song writ, — 

The stars a third time sealing it 
With sudden music of pure peace : 

For echoing thrice the threefold song, 

The unnumbered stars the tone prolong.! 

* Such was the last sentence passed by Florence against 
Dante, as a recalcitrant exile. 

t ' E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle? Inferno. 

* Puro e disposto a sal ire alle stelle? Purgatorio. 

* L'amor che muove 11 sole e I'altre stelle.^ Paradiso. 



DANTE AT VERONA, 105 

Each hour, as then the Vision pass'd, 

He heard the utter harmony 

Of the nine trembling spheres, till she 
Bowed her eyes towards him in the last, 

So that all ended with her eyes, 

Hell, Purgatory, Paradise. 

' It is my trust, as the years fall, 
To write more worthily of her 
Who now, being made God's minister. 

Looks on His visage and knows all' 
Such was the hope that love did blend 
With griefs slow fires, to make an end 

Of the ' New Life,' his youth's dear book : 

Adding thereunto : ' In such trust 

I labor, and believe I must 
Accomplish this which my soul took 

In charge, if God, my Lord and hers, 

Leave my life with me a few years.' 

The trust which he had borne in youth 
Was all at length accompHshed. He 
At length had written worthily — 



io6 DANTE AT VERONA, 

Yea even of her ; no rhymes uncouth 

'Twixt tongue and tongue ; but by God's aid 
The first words Italy had said. 

Ah ! haply now the h'eavenly guide 

Was not the last form seen by him : 

But there that Beatrice stood slim 
And bowed in passing at his side, 

For whom in youth his heart made moan 

Then when the city sat alone.* 

Clearly herself; the same whom he 

Met, not past girlhood, in the street, 

Low-bosomed and with hidden feet ; 
And then as woman perfectly, 

In years that followed, many an once, — 

And now at last among the suns 

In that high vision. But indeed 
It may be memory did recall 
Last to him then the first of all, — 

* ' Quomodo sedet sola civitas ! ' — fh^ words quoted by Dante 
in the ' Vita Nuova' when he speaks of the death of Beatrice. 



DANTE AT VERONA. 107 

The child his boyhood bore in heed 

Nine years. At length the voice brought peace, — 
' Even I, even I am Beatrice.' 

All this, being there, we had not seen. 

Seen only was the shadow wrought 

On the strong features bound in thought ; 
The vagueness gaining gait and mien ; 

The white streaks gathering clear to view 

In the burnt beard the women knew. 

For a tale tells that on his track. 

As through Verona's streets he went, 

This saying certain women sent : — 
' Lo, he that strolls to Hell and back 

At will ! Behold him, how Hell's reek 

Has crisped his beard and singed his cheek.* 

'Whereat' (Boccaccio's words) 'he smil'd 

For pride in fame.' It might be so : 

Nevertheless we cannot know 
If haply he were not beguil'd 

To bitterer mirth, who scarce could tell 

If he indeed were back from Hell. 



[o8 DANTE AT VERQNA. 

So the day came, after a space, 
When Dante felt assured that there 
The sunshine must lie sicklier 

Even than in any other place. 

Save only Florence. When that day 
Had come, he rose and went his way. 

He went and turned not. From his shoes 
It may be that he shook the dust, 
As every righteous dealer must 

Once and again ere life can close : 
And unaccompHshed destiny 
Struck cold his forehead, it may be. 

No book keeps record how the Prince 
Sunned himself out of Dante's reach. 
Nor how the Jester stank in speech ; 

While courtiers, used to smile and wince, 
Poets and harlots, all the throng, 
liet loose their scandal and their song. 

No book keeps record if the seat 
Which Dante held at his host's board 
Were sat in next by clerk or lord, — 



DANTE AT VERONA. 109 

If leman lolled with dainty feet 
At ease, or hostage brooded there, 
Or priest lacked silence for his prayer. 

Eat and wash hands, Can Grande ; — scarce 
We know their deeds now : hands which fed 
Our Dante with that bitter bread ; 

And thou the watch-dog of those stairs 
Which, of all paths his feet knew well, 
Were steeper found than Heaven or Hell. 



ITO 



JENNY. 

Vengeance of Jenny's case I Fie on her 1 Never name her, 
child V*^(^Mrs. Quickly.) 

Lazy laughing languid Jenny, 

Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea, 

Whose head upon my knee to-ni^ht 

Rests for a while, as if grown light 

With all our dances and the sound 

To which the wild tunes spun you round : 

Fair Jenny mine, the thoughtless queen 

Of kisses which the blush between 

Could hardly make much daintier ; 

VrTiose eyes are as blue skies, whose hair 

Is countless gold incomparable : 

Fresh flower, scarce touched with signs that tell 

Of Love's exuberant hotbed : — Nay, 

Poor flower left torn since yesterday 

Until to-morrow leave you bare ; 

Poor handful of bright spring-water 

Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face ; 



7ENIVV. II 

Poor saameful Jenny, full of grace 
Thus with your head upon my knee ; — 
Whose person or whose purse may be 
The lodestai* of your reverie ? 

This room of yours, my Jenny, looks 
A change from mine so full of books, 
Whose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth, 
So many captive hours of youth, — 
The hours they thieve from day and night 
To make one's cherished work come right, 
And leave it wrong for all their theft, 
Even as to-night my work was left : 
Until I vowed that since my brain 
And eyes of dancing seemed so fain, 
My feet should have some dancing too : — 
And thus it was I met with you. 
Well, I suppose 'twas hard to part. 
For here I am. And now, sweetheart, 
You seem too tired to get to bed. 

It was a careless life I led 
When rooms like this were scarce so strange 
Not long ago. What breeds the change, — 



112 JENNY. 

The many aims or the few years? 
Because to-night it all appears 
Something I do not know again. 

The cloud's not danced out of my bram,— 
The cloud that made it turn and swim 
While hour by hour the books grew dim. 
Why, Jenny, as I watch you there, — 
For all your wealth of loosened hair, 
Your silk ungirdled and unlac'd 
And warm sweets open to the waist, 
All golden in the lamplight's gleam, — 
You know not what a book you seem, 
Half-read by lightning in a dream ! 
How should you know, my Jenny? Nay, 
And I should be ashamed to say : — 
Poor beauty, so well worth a kiss ! 
But while my thought runs on like this 
With wasteful whims more than enough, 
I wonder what you're thinking of. 

If of myself you think at all, 
What is the thought? — conjectural 
On sorry matters best unsolved ? — 



JENNY. "3 

Or inly is each grace revolved 
To fit me with a lure? — or (sad 
To think !) perhaps you're merely glad 
That Fm not drunk or ruffianly 
And let you rest upon my knee. 

For sometimes, were the truth confessed. 
You're thankful for a little rest, — 
Glad from the crush to rest within, 
From the heart-sickness and the din 
Where envy's voice at virtue's pitch 
Mocks you because your gown is rich ; 
And from the pale girl's dumb rebuke. 
Whose ill-clad grace and toil-worn look 
Proclaim the strength that keeps her weak 
And other nights thar. yours bespeak ; 
And from the wise unchildish elf, 
To schoolmate lesser than himself, 
Pointing you out, what thing you are : — 
Yes, from the daily jeer and jar, 
From shame and shame's outbraving too, 
Is rest not sometimes sweet to you ? — 
But most from the hatefulness of man 
Who spares not to end what he began. 



114 yENNY. 

Whose acts are ill and his speech ill, 
Who, having used you at his will, 
Thrusts you aside, as when I dine 
I serve the dishes and the wine. 

Well, handsome Jenny mine, sit up, 
Fve filled our glasses, let us sup, 
And do not let me think of you. 
Lest shame of yours suffice for two. 
What, still so tired? Well, well then, keep 
Youi head there, so you do not sleep ; 
But that the weariness may pass 
And leave you merry, take this glass. 
Ah I lazy lily hand, more bless'd 
If ne'er in rings it had been dress'd 
Nor ever by a glove conceaFd ! 

Behold the lilies of the field. 
They toil not neither do they spin ; 
(So doth the ancient text begin, — 
. Not of such rest as one of these 
Can share.) Another- rest and ease 
Along each summer-sated path 
From its new lord the garden hath. 



JENNY, IIS 

Than that whose spring in blessings ran 
Which praised the bounteous husbandman, 
Ere yet, in days of hankering breath, 
The lilies sickened unto death. 

What, Jenny, are your lilies dead? 
Aye, and the snow-white leaves are spread 
Like winter on the garden-bed. 
But you had roses left in May, — 
They were not gone too. Jenny, nay. 
But must your roses die, and those 
Their purfled buds that should unclose? ^ 

Even so ; the leaves are curled apart, 
Still red as from the broken heart. 
And here's the naked stem of thorns. 

Nay, nay, mere words. Here nothing warns 
As yet of winter. Sickness here 
Or want alone could waken fear, — 
Nothing but passion wrings a tear. 
Except when there may rise unsought 
Haply at times a passing thought 
Of the old days which seem to be 
Much older than any history 



ii6 JENNY. 

That is written in any book ; 

When she would lie in fields and look 

Along the ground thi ough the blown grass, 

And wonder where the city was, 

Far out of sight, whose broil and bale 

They told her then for a child's tale. 

Jenny, you know the city now. 
A child can tell the tale there, how 
Some things which are not yet enroll'd 
/a market-lists are bought and sold 
j2ven till the early Sunday light, 
When Saturday night is market-night 
Everywhere, be it dry or wet. 
And market-night in the Haymarket. 
Our learned London children know, 
Poor Jenny, all your pride and woe ; 
Have seen your lifted silken skirt 
Advertise dainties through the dirt ; 
Have seen your coach- wheels splash rebuke 
On virtue ; and have learned your look 
When, wealth and health slipped past, you stare 
Along the streets alone, and there. 
Round the long park, across the bri ige, 



JENNY, 

The cold lamps at the pavements edge 
Wind on together and apart, 
A fiery serpent for your heart. 

Let the thoughts pass, an empty cloud I 
Suppose I were to think aloud, — 
What if to her all this were said ? 
Why, as a volume seldom read 
Being opened halfway shuts again, 
So might the pages of her brain 
Be parted at such words, and thence 
Close back upon the dusty sense. 
For is there hue or shape defin'd 
In Jenny's desecrated mind. 
Where all contagious currents meet, 
A Lethe of the middle street? 
Nay, it reflects not any face. 
Nor sound is in its sluggish pace. 
But as they coil those eddies clot. 
And night and day remember not. 

Why, Jenny, you're asleep at last ! — » 
Asleep, poor Jenny, hard and fast, — 
So young and soft and tired ; so fair, 



ii8 JENNY. 

With chin thus nestled in your hair, 

Mouth quiet, eyelids almost blue 

As if some sky of dreams shone through I 

Just as another woman sleeps ! 
Enough to throw one's thoughts in heaps 
Of doubt and horror, — what to say 
Or think, — this awful secret sway, 
The potter's power over the clay ! 
Of the same lump (it has been said) 
For honor and dishonor made, 
Two sister vessels. Here is one. 

My cousin Nell is fond of fun, 
And fond of dress, and change, and praise. 
So mere a woman in her ways : 
And if her sweet eyes rich in youth 
Are like her lips that tell the truth, 
My cousin Nell is fond of love. 
And she's the girl I'm proudest of. 
Who does not prize her, guard her well ? 
The love of change, in cousin Nell, 
Shall find the best and hold it dear : 
The unconquered mirth turn quieter 



JENNY. 119 

Not through her own, through others' woe : 

The conscious pride of beauty glow 

Beside another's pride in her, 

One little part of all they share. 

For Love himself shall ripen these 

In a kind soil to just increase 

Through years of fertilizing peace. 

Of the same lump (as it is said) 
For honor and dishonor made, 
Two sister vessels. Here is one. 

It makes a goblin of the sun. 

So pure, — so fall'n ! How dare to think 
Of the first common kindred link ? 
Yet, Jenny, till the world shall burn 
It seems that all things take their turn 
And who shall say but this fair tree 
May need, in changes that may be. 
Your children's children's charity? 
Scorned then, no doubt, as you are scorn*d ^ 
Shall no man hold his pride forewarn'd 
Till in the end, the Day of Days, 



I20 JENNY. 

At Judgment, one of his own race, 
As frail and lost as you, shall rise, — 
His daughter, with his mother's eyes ? 

How Jenny's clock ticks on the shelf! 
Might not the dial scorn itself 
That has such hours to register? 
Yet as to me, even so to her 
Are golden sun and silver moon, 
In daily largesse of earth's boon, 
Counted for life-coins to one tune. 
And if, as blindfold fates are toss'd, 
Through some one man this life be lost, 
Shall soul not somehow pay for soul ? 

Fair shines the gilded aureole 
In which our highest painters place 
Some living woman's simple face. 
And the stilled features thus descried 
As Jenny's long throat droops aside, — 
The shadows where the cheeks are thin, 
And pure wide curve from ear to chin,— 
With Raffael's, Leonardo's hand 
To show them to men's souls, might stand, 



JENNY, 121 

Whole ages long, the whole world through, 
For preachings of what God can do. 
What has man done here ? How atone, 
Great God, for this which man has done ? 
And for the body and soul which by 
Man's pitiless doom must now comply 
With lifelong hell, what lullaby 
Of sweet forgetful second birth 
Remains? All dark. No sign on earth 
What measure of God's rest endows 
The many mansions of his house. 

If but a woman's heart might see 
Such erring heart unerringly 
For once I But that can never be. 

Like a rose shut in a book 
In which pure women may not look, 
For its base pages claim control 
To crush the flower within the soul ; 
Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings. 
Pale as transparent psyche-wings, 
To the vile text, are traced &uv.ii things 
As might make lady's cheek indeed 



JENNY. 

More than a living rose to read ; 
So nought save foolish foulness may 
Watch with hard eyes the sure decay ; 
And so the life-blood of this rose, 
Puddled with shameful knowledge, flows 
Through leaves no chaste hand may unclose ; 
Yet still it keeps such faded show 
Of when *twas gathered long ago, 
That the crushed petals' lovely grain, 
The sweetness of the sanguine stain, 
Seen of a woman's eyes, must make 
Her pitiful heart, so prone to ache. 
Love roses better for its sake : — 
Only that this can never be : — 
Even so unto her sex is she. 

Yet, Jenny, looking long at you, 
The woman almost fades from view. 
A cipher of man's changeless sum 
Of lust, past, present, and to come. 
Is left. A riddle that one shrinks 
To challenge from the scornful sphinx. 

Like a toad within a stone 
Seated while Time crumbles on ; 



JENNY, 123 

Which sits there since the earth was curs*d 

For Man's transgression at the first ; 

Which, living through all centuries, 

Not once has seen the sun arise ; 

Whose life, to its cold circle charmed, 

The earth's whole summers have not warmed ; 

Which always — whitherso the stone 

Be flung — sits there, deaf, blind, alone ; — 

Aye, and shall not be driven out 

Till that which shuts him round about 

Break at the very Master's stroke. 

And the dust thereof vanish as smoke, 

And the seed of Man vanish as dust : — 

Even so within this world is Lust. 

Come, come, what use in thoughts like this/ 
Poor little Jenny, good to kiss, — 
You'd not believe by what strange roads 
Thought travels, when your beauty goads 
A man to-night to think of toads ! 
Jenny, wake up. . . . Why, there's the dawn I 

And there's an early waggon drawn 
To market, and some sheep that jog 



124 JENNY, 

Bleating before a barking dog ; 
And the old streets come peering through 
Another night that London knew ; 
And all as ghostlike as the lamps. 

So on the wings of day decamps 
My last night's froHc. Glooms begin 
To shiver off as lights creep in 
Past the gauze curtains half drawn-to, 
And the lamp's doubled shade grows blue, — 
Your lamp, my Jenny, kept alight, 
Like a wise virgin's, all one night ! 
And in the alcove coolly spread 
Glimmers with dawn your empty bed ; 
And yonder your fair face I see 
Reflected lying on my knee. 
Where teems with first foreshado\vings 
Your pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings : 
And on your bosom all night worn 
Yesterday's rose now droops forlorn 
But dies not yet this summer morn. 

And now without, as if some word 
Had called upon them that they heard, 



JENNY, 125 

The London sparrows far and nigh 
Clamor together suddenly ; 
And Jenny's cage-bird grown awake 
Here in their song his part must take, 
Because here too the day doth break. 

And somehow in myself the dawn 
Among stirred clouds and veils withdrawn 
Strikes grayly on her. Let her sleep. 
But will it wake her if I heap 
These cushions thus beneath her head 
Where my knee was ? No, — there's your bed, 
My Jenny, while you dream. And there 
I lay among your golden hair 
Perhaps the subject of your dreams. 
These golden coins. 

For still one deems 
That Jenny's flattering sleep confers 
New magic on the magic purse, — 
Grim web, how clogged with shrivelled flies ! 
Between the threads fine fumes arise 
And shape their pictures in the brain. 
There roll no streets in glare and rain, 



126 JENNY, 

Nor flagrant man-swine whets his tusk ; 

But delicately sighs in musk 

The homage of the dim boudoir ; 

Or like a palpitating star 

Thrilled into song, the opera-night 

Breathes faint in the quick pulse of light ; 

Or at the carriage-window shine 

Rich wares for choice ; or, free to dine. 

Whirls through its hour of health (divine 

For her) the concourse of the Park. 

And though in the discounted dark 

Her functions there and here are one, 

Beneath the lamps and in the sun 

There reigns at least the acknowledged belle 

Apparelled beyond parallel. 

Ah, Jenny, yes, we know your dreams. 

For even the Paphian Venus seems 
A goddess o'er the realms of love, 
When silver-shrined in shadowy grove : 
Aye, or let offerings nicely placed 
But hide Priapus to the waist. 
And whoso looks on him shall see 
An eligible deity. 



JEANV. 127 

Why, Jenny, waking here alone 
May help you to remember one. 
Though all the memory's long outworn 
Of many a double-pillowed morn. 
I think I see you when you wake, 
And rub your eyes for me, and shake 
My gold, in rising, from your hair, 
A Danae for a moment there. 

Jenny, my love rang true ! for still 
Love at first sight is vague, until 
That tinkling makes him audible. 

And must I mock you to the last, 
Ashamed of my own shame, — aghast 
Because some thoughts not born amiss 
Rose at a poor fair face like this ? 

Well, of such thoughts so much I know : 
In my life, as in hers, they show, 
By a far gleam which I may near, 
A dark path I can strive to clear. 

Only one kiss. Good-bye, my dear. 



128 



I 



THE PORTRAIT. 

This is her picture as she was : 

It seems a thing to wonder on, 
As though mine image in the glass 

Should tarry when myself am gone. 
I gaze until she seems to stir, — 
Until mine eyes almost aver 

That now, even now, the sweet lips part 

To breathe the words of the sweet heart : — 
And yet the earth is over her. 



Alas I even such the thin-drawn ray 

That makes the prison-depths more rude, — 

The drip of water night and day 
Giving a tongue to solitude. 

Yet only this, of love's whole prize, ] 

Remains ; save what in mournful guise 



THE PORTRAIT. 129 

Takes counsel with my soul alone, — 
Save what is secret and unknown, 
Below the earth, above the skies. 



in painting her I shrined her face 
*Mid mystic trees, where light falls in 

Hardly at all ; a covert place 

Where you might think to find a din 

Of doubtful talk, and a live flame 

Wandering, and many a shape whose name 
Not itself knoweth, and old dew, 
And your own footsteps meeting you, 

And all things going as they came. 

A deep dim wood ; and there she stands 
As in that wood that day : for so 

Was the still movement of her hands 
And such the pure line's gracious flow. 

And passing fair the type must seem. 

Unknown the presence and the dream. 
*Tis she : though of herself, alas I 
Less than her shadow on the grass 

Or than her image in the stream. 



[30 THE PORTRAIT. 

That day we met there, I and she 

One with the other all alone ; 
And we were blithe ; yet memory 

Saddens those hours, as when the moon 
Looks upon daylight. And with her 
I stooped to drink the spring- water, 

Athirst where other waters sprang ; 

And where the echo is, she sang, — 
My soul another echo there. 

But when that hour my soul won strength 
For words whose silence wastes and kills, 

Dull raindrops smote us, and at length 
Thundered the heat within the hills. 

That eve I spoke those words again 

Beside the pelted window-pane ; 

And there she hearkened what I said, 
With under-glances that surveyed 

The empty pastures blind with rain. 

Next day the memories of these things, 

Like leaves through which a bird has flown, 

Still vibrated with Love's warm wings ; 
Till I must make them all my own 



THE PORTRAIT, 131 

And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease 
Of talk and sweet long silences, 

She stood among the plants in bloom 

At windows of a summer room. 
To feign the shadow of the trees. 

And as I wrought, while all above 

And all around was fragrant air, 
In the sick burthen of my love 

It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there 
Beat like a heart among the leaves. 
O heart that never beats nor heaves, 

In that one darkness lying still. 

What now to thee my love's great will 
Or the fine web the sunshine weaves ? 

For now doth daylight disavow 

Those days, — nought left to see or hear. 
Only in solemn whispers now 

At night-time these things reach mine ear, 
When the leaf-shadows at a breath 
Shrink in the road, and all the heath, 

Forest and water, far and wide, 

In limpid starlight glorified, 
Lie like the mystery of death. 



132 THE PORTRAIT, |j 

Last night at last I could have slept, 

And yet delayed my sleep till dawn. 
Still wandering. Then it was I wept : 

For unawares I came upon 
Those glades where once she walked with me ! 
And as I stood there suddenly, 

All wan with traversing the night, 

Upon the desolate verge of light 
Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea. 

Even so, where Heaven holds breath and hear* 

The beating heart of Love's own breast, - 
Where round the secret of all spheres 

All angels lay their wings to rest, — 
How shall my soul stand rapt and awed, 
When, by the new birth borne abroad 

Throughout the music of the suns, 

It enters in her soul at once 
And knows the silence there for God 1 

Here with her face doth memory sit 

Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline^ 
Till other eyes shall look from it, 

Eyes of the spirit's Palestine, 



THE /ORTRAIT, I33 

Even than the old gaze tenderer : 
While hopes and aims long lost with her 
Stand round her image side by side, 
Like tombs of pilgrims that have died 
About the Holy Sepulchre. 



i34 



SISTER HELEN. 

^ Why did you melt your waxen man, 

Sister Helen ? 
To-day is the third since you began.' 
' The time was long, yet the time ran, 

Little brother.' 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother^ 
Three days to-day^ between Hell and Heaven /) 

' But if you have done your work aright, 

Sister Helen, 
You'll let me play, for you said I might.' 
' Be very still in your play to-night, 

Little brother.' 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother,, 
Third night .^ to-night^ between Hell and Heaven I) 



SISTER HELEN. 135 

You said it must melt ere vesper-bell^ 
Sister Helen ; 
If now it be molten, all is well.' 
* Even so, — nay, peace ! you cannot tell, 
Little brother.* 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother^ 
O what is this^ between Hell and Heaven f) 

'Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day, 

Sister Helen ; 
How like dead folk he has dropped away ! ' 
' Nay now, of the dead what can you say, 
Little brother?* 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother^ 
What of the dead^ between Hell and Heaven f) 

* See, see, the sunken pile of wood. 

Sister Helen, 
Shines through the thinned wax red as blood I ' 

* Nay now, when looked you yet on blood. 

Little brother?' 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother^ 
How pale she isy between Hell and Heaven I) 



136 SISTER HELEN, 

* Now close your eyes, for the^re sick and sore, 

Sister Helen, 
And I'll play without the gallery door.* 

* Aye, let me rest, — I'll lie on the floor. 

Little brother.' 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother^ 
What rest to-night^ between Hell and Heaven T) 

' Here high up in the balcony, 

Sister Helen, 
The moon flies face to face with me/ 

* Aye, look and say whatever you see, 

Little brother.' 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother^ 
What sight to-night^ between Hell and Heaven f) 

Outside it's merry in the wind's wake. 
Sister Helen ; 
] n the shaken trees the chill stars shake.* 
Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake, 
Little brother?* 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother,, 
What sound to-night^ between Hell and Heaven f) 



SISTER HELEN. 137 

* I hear a horse-tread, and I see, 

Sister Helen, 
Three horsemen that ride terribly/ 
Little brother, whence come the three, 
Little brother?' 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother^ 
Whence should they come ^ between Hell and Heaven f) 

* They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, 

Sister Helen, 
And one draws nigh, but two are afar.* 
' Look, look, do you know them who they are, 
Little brother?* 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother^ 
Who should they be^ between Hell and Heaven?) 

* Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast. 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white mane on the blast. 

* The hour has come, has come at last, 

Little brother I ' 
( O Mother^ Mary Mother^ 
Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven /) 



138 SISTER HELEN. 

* He has made a sign and called Halloo ! 

Sister Helen, 
And he says that he would speak with you.' 
' Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew, 
Little brother.' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven T) 

'The wind is loud, but I hear him cry. 

Sister Helen, 
That Keith of Ewem's like to die.' 

* And he and thou, and thou and I, 

Little brother.' 
{0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
And they and we, between Hell and Heaven /) 

' Three days ago, on his marriage-mom. 

Sister Helen, 
He sickened, and Ues since then forlorn.' 

* For bridegroom's side is the bride a thorn, 

Little brother?' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven I) 



SISTER HELEN. 139 

* Three days and nights he has lain abed, 

Sister Helen, 
And he prays in torment to be dead.* 

* The thing may chance, if he have prayed. 

Little brother ! ' 
(C? Mother^ Mary Mother^ 
If he have prayedf between Hell and Heaven /) 

' But he has not ceased to cry to-day, 

Sister Helen, 
That you should take your curse away/ 
' My prayer was heard, — he need but pray. 

Little brother ! ' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven ?) 

* But he says, till you take back your ban. 

Sister Helen, 
His soul would pass, yet never can.* 

* Nay then, shall I slay a living man. 

Little brother?' 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
A living soul, between Hell and Heaven /) 



HO SISTER HELEN. 

' But he calls for ever on your name. 

Sister Helen, 
And says that he melts before a flame.' 
' My heart for his pleasure fared the same, 
Little brother.' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven /) 

* Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast. 
Sister Helen, 

For I know the white plume on the blast* 

' The hour, the sweet hour I forecast. 
Little brother ! ' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heavefi ?) 



' He stops to speak, and he stills his horse. 

Sister Helen ; 
But his words are drowned in the wind's course.' 
' Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce, 
Little brother ! ' 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What word now heard, between Hell and Heaven ?) 



\ 



SISTER HELEN. 141 

' Oh he says that Keith of Ewern's cry, 

Sister Helen, 
Is ever to see you ere he die.' 
* In all that his soul sees, there am I, 
Little brother ! ' 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
The souVs one sight, between Hell and Heaven /) 

' He sends a ring and a broken coin, 

Sister Helen, 
And bids you mind the banks of Bo)nie.' 
'What else he broke will he ever join, 
Little brother?' 
( O Mother, Mary Mother ^ 
No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven !) 

' He yields you these and craves full fain. 

Sister Helen, 
You pardon him in his mortal pain.' 
'■ What else he took will he give again, 

Little brother?' 
((9 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Not twice to give, between Hell a7id Heaven /) 



142 



SISTER HELEN. 



' He calls your name in an agony, 
Sister Helen, 
That even dead Love must weep to see.' 
' Hate, bom of Love, is blind as he, 
Little brother ! ' 
( O Mother, Mary Mother , 
Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven /) 

' Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides fast, 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white hair on the blast.' 
' The short, short hour will soon be past, 

Little brother ! ' 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven f) 



* He looks at me and he tries to speak. 
Sister Helen, 

But oh ! his voice is sad and weak ! ' 

' What here should the mighty Baron seek. 
Little brother?' 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven T) 



S/STE/^ HELEN. 

* Oh his son still cries, if you forgive, 

Sister Helen, 
The body dies, but the soul shall live/ 

* Fire shall forgive me as I forgive, 

Little brother ! ' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven /) 

' Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive, 

Sister Helen, 
To save his dear son's soul alive.' 
' Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive, 

Little brother ! ' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven /) 

' He cries to you, kneeling in the road, 
Sister Helen, 

To go with him for the love of God ! ' 

* The way is long to his son's abode, 
Little brother.' 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

The way is long, between Hell and Heaven /) 



143 



144 SISTER HELEN. 

' A lady's here, by a dark steed brought, 

Sister Helen, 
So darkly clad, I saw her not.' 
' See her now or never see aught. 

Little brother ! ' 
( O Mother y Mary Mother ^ 
What more to see, between Hell and Heaven ?) 

' Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair, 

Sister Helen, 
On the Lady of Ewem's golden hair.' 
' Blest hour of my power and her despair, 

Little brother ! ' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and Heaven I) 

* Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow. 

Sister Helen, 
'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago.' 

* One mom for pride and three days for woe, 

Little brother ! ' 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven /) 



SISTER HELEN. 145 

' Her clasped hands stretch from her bending head, 

Sister Helen ; 
With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed.' 
' What wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed, 

Little brother?' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What strain but death's, between Hell and Heaven ?) 

' She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon. 

Sister Helen, — 
She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon.' 

* Oh ! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune, 

Little brother ! ' 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Her wois dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven !) 

* They've caught her to Westholm's saddle-bow, 

Sister Helen, 
And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow.' 

* Let it turn whiter than winter snow. 

Little brother ! ' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Woe^juithered gold, between Hell and Heaven f) 



146 



SISTER HELEN. 



* O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, 

Sister Helen ! 
More loud than the vesper-chime it fell.' 

* No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, 

Little brother ! ' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven /) 

* Alas ! but I fear the heavy sound, 

Sister Helen ; 
Is it in the sky or in the ground ? ' 
' Say, have they turned their horses round, 
Little brother?' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What would she more, between Hell and Heaven T) 



' They have raised the old man from his knee, 
Sister Helen, 

And they ride in silence hastily.' 

* More fast the naked soul doth flee, 
Litde brother ! ' 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven !) 



SISTER HELEN. 147 

' Flank to flank are the three steeds gone, 

Sister Helen, 
But the lady's dark steed goes alone.' 

* And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown, 

Little brother.' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven I) 

* Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill. 

Sister Helen, 
And weary sad they look by the hill.' 
' But he and I are sadder still, 

Little brother ! ' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven I) 

' See, see, the wax has dropped from its place. 

Sister Helen, 
And the flames are winning up apace ! ' 

* Yet here they bum but for a space. 

Little brother ! ' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven I) 



rv<^ 



SISTER HELEN, 



* .^ h ! what white thing at the door has cross'd, 
Sister Helen? 

Ah ! what is this that sighs in the frost ? ' 

' A soul that's lost as mine is lost, 

Little brother ! ' 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven /) 



149 



STRATTON WATER. 

* O HAVE you seen the Stratton floid 

That's great with rain to day? 
It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands, 
Full of the new-mown hay. 

* I led your hounds to Hutton bank 

To bathe at early morn : 
They got their bath by Borrowbrake 
Above the standing corn.* 

Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands 
Looked up the western lea ; 

The rook was grieving on her nest, 
The flood was round her tree. 

Over the castle-wall Lord Sands 
Looked down the eastern hill : 

The stakes swam free among the boats, 
The flood was rising: still. 



ISO STRATTON WATER, 

' What's yonder far below that lies 
So white against the slope ? ' 

* O if s a sail o* your bonny barks 

The waters have washed up.* 

' But I have never a sail so white* 

And the water's not yet there/ 
' O it's the swans o' your bonny lake 

The rising flood doth scare.' 

* The swans they would not hold so still, 

So high they would not win. 
' O if s Joyce my wife has spread her smock 
And fears to fetch it in.' 

* Nay, knave, if s neither sail nor swans, 

Nor aught that you can say ; 
For though your wife might leave her smock, 
Herself she'd bring away.' 

Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair, 

The court, and yard, and all ; 
The kine were in the byre that day, 

The nags were in the stall. 



STRATTON WATER, I5|i 

Lord Sands has won the weltering slope 

Whereon the white shape lay : 
The clouds were still above the hill, 

And the shape was still as they. 

Oh pleasant is the gaze of life 

And sad is death's blind head , 
But awful are the living eyes 

In the face of one thought dead I 

' In God's name, Janet, is it me 
Thy ghost has come to seek ? * 

* Nay, wait another hour, Lord Sands, — * 

Be sure my ghost shall speak.* 

A moment stood he as a stone, 

Then grovelled to his knee. 
' O Janet, O my love, my love. 

Rise up and come with me ! ' 

* O once before you bade me come. 

And it's here you have brought me I 

' O many's the sweet word, Lord Sands, 

YouVe spoken oft to me ; 
But all that I have from you to-day 

Is the rain on my body. 



ii;2 STRATTON WATER, 

' And many*s the good gift, Lord Sands, 

You've promised oft to me ; 
But the gift of yours I keep to-day 

Is the babe in my body. 

* O it*s not in any earthly bed 

That first my babe I'll see ; 
For I have brought my body here 
That the flood may cover me.* 

His face was close against her face. 

His hands of hers were fain : 
O her wet cheeks were hot with tears, 

Her wet hands cold with rain. 

' They told me you were dead, Janet, — 

How could I guess the lie ? ' 
' They told me you were false. Lord Sands, — « 

What could I do but die ? ' 

* Now keep you well, my brother Giles, — 

Through you I deemed her dead I 
As wan as your towers be to-day, 
To-morrow they'll be red. 



STRATTON WATER. 153 

Look down, look down, my false mother. 
That bade me not to grieve : 
You'll look up when our marriage fires 
Are lit to-morrow eve. 

' O more than one and more than two 

The sorrow of this shall see : 
But it*s to-morrow, love, for them, — 

To-da/s for thee and me.' 

* He's drawn her face between his hands 

And her pale mouth to his : 
No bird that was so still that day 

Chirps sweeter than his kiss. 

The flood was creeping round their feeu 

* O Janet, come away ! 
The hall is warm for the marriage-rite, 

The bed for the birthday.' 

Nay, but I hear your mother cry, 
" Go bring this bride to bed I 
And would she christen her babe unborn, 
So wet she comes to wed ? " 



, 54 STRA TTON WA TER. 

' ril be your wife to cross your door 

And meet your mother's e'e. 
We plighted troth to wed i' the kirk, 

And it's there Til wed with ye/ 

He's ta'en her by the short girdle 
And by the dripping sleeve : 

* Go fetch Sir Jock my mother's priest,— 

You'll ask of him no leave. 

* O if s one half-hour to reach the kirk 

And one for the marriage-rite ; 
And kirk and castle and castie-lands 
Shall be our babe's to-night.' 

*The flood's in the kirkyard, Lord Sands, 
And round the belfry-stair.* 

* I bade ye fetch the priest,' he said, 

'Myself shall bring him there. 



* It's for the lilt of wedding bells 
We'll have the hail to pour. 

And for the clink of bridle-reins 
The plashing of the oar.* 



STRATTOI\r WATER, 155 

Beneath them on the nether hill 

A boat was floating wide : 
Lord Sands swam out and caught the oars 

And rowed to the hill-side. 

He's wrapped her in a green mantle 

And set her softly in ; 
Her hair was wet upon her face, 

Her face was gray and thin ; 
And ' Oh ! * she said, ' lie still, my babe. 

If s out you must not win I ' 

But woe's my heart for Father John I 

As hard as he might pray, 
There seemed no help but Noah's ark 

Or Jonah's fish that day. 

The first strokes that the oars struck 

Were over the broad leas ; 
The next strokes that the oars struck 

They pushed beneath the trees ; 

The last stroke that the oars struck, 

The good boaf s head was met, 
And there the gate of the kirkyard 

Stood like a ferry-gate 



156 STRATTON WATER, 

He's set his hand upon the bar 

And lightly leaped within : 
He's lifted her to his left shoulder, 

Her knees beside his chin. 

The graves lay deep beneath the flood 

Under the rain alone ; 
And when the foot-stone made him slip, 

He held by the head-stone. 

The empty boat thrawed i' the wind. 

Against the postern tied. 
* Hold still, you've brought my love with me, 

You shall take back my bride.* 

But woe's my heart for Father John 
And the saints he clamored to I 

There's never a saint but Christopher 
Might hale such buttocks through I 

And ' Oh ! ' she said, ' on men's shoulders 

I well had thought to wend. 
And well to travel with a priest. 

But not to have cared or ken'd 



STRATTON WATER, 157 

' And oh ! ' she said, ' it*s well this way 

That I thought to have fared, — 
Xot to have lighted at the kirk 

But stopped in the kirkyard. 

* For if 8 oh and oh I prayed to God, 

Whose rest I hoped to win, 
That when to-night at your board-head 

You'd bid the feast begin. 
This water past your window-sill 

Might bear my body in/ 

Now make the white bed warm and soft 

And greet the merry morn. 
The night the mother should have died 

The young son shall be born. 



H8 



THE STREAM'S SECRET. 

What thing unto mine ear 
Wouldst thou convey, — what secret thing, 
O wandering water ever whispering? 

Surely tny speech shall be of her. 
Thou water, O thou whispering wanderer, 
What message dost thou bring? 

Say, hath not Love leaned low 
This hour beside thy far well-head, 
And there through jealous hollowed fingers saia 

The thing that most I long to know, — 
Murmuring with curls all dabbled in thy flow 
And washed lips rosy red ? 



He told it to thee there 
Where thy voice hath a louder tone ; 
But v^here it welters to this little moan 



THE STREAM'S SECRET 159 

His will decrees that I should hear. 
Now speak : for with the silence is no fear, 
And I am all alone. 

Shall Time not still endow 
One hour with life, and I and she 
Slake in one kiss the thirst of memory ? 

Say, stream ; lest Love should disavow 
Thy service, and the bird upon the bough 
Sing first to tell it me. 

What whisperest thou ? Nay, why 
Name the dead hours? I mind them well . 
Their ghosts in many darkened doorways dwell 

With desolate eyes to know them by. 
That hour must still be born ere it can die 
Of that Fd have thee tell 

But hear, before thou speak ! 
Withhold, I pray, the vain behest 
That while the maze hath still its bower for quest 

My burning heart should cease to seek. 
Be sure that Love ordained for souls more meek 
His roadside dells of rest. 



i6o THE STREAM'S SECRET 

Stream, when tiiis silver thread 
In flood-time is a torrent brown, 
May any bulwark bind thy foaming crown ? 

Shall not the waters surge and spread 
And to the crannied boulders of their bed 
Still shoot the dead drift down ? 

Let no rebuke find place 
In speech of thine : or it shall prove 
That thou dost ill expound the words of Love, 

Even as thine eddy's rippling race 
Would blur the perfect image of his face 
I will have none thereof. 

O learn and understand 
That 'gainst the wrongs himself did wreak 
Love sought her aid ; until her shadowy cheek 

And eyes beseeching gave command ; 
And compassed in her close compassionate hand 
My heart must burn and speak. 

For then at last we spoke 
What eyes so oft had tc/ld to eyes 
Through that long-lingering silence whose half-sigh» 



THE STREAM'S SECRET, i6i 

Alone the buried secret broke, 
Which with snatched hands and lips* reverberate stroke 
Then from the heart did rise. 

But she is far away 
Now ; nor the hours of night grown hoar 
Bring yet to me, long gazing from the door, 

The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray 
And rose-crown of the hour that leads the day 
When we shall meet once more. 

Dark as thy blinded wave 
When brimming midnight floods the glen, — 
Bright as the laughter of thy runnels when 
The dawn yields all the light they crave ; 
Even so these hours to wound and that to save 
Are sisters in Love*s ken. 

Oh sweet her bending grace 
Then when I kneel beside her feet ; 
And sweet her eyes* o*erhanging heaven ; and sweet 

The gathering folds of her embrace ; 
And her falFn hair at last shed round my face 
When breaths and tears shall meet 



1 62 



THE STREAM'S SECRET, 



Beneath her sheltering hair, 

In the warm silence near her breast, 

Our kisses and our sobs shall sink to rest ; 

As in some still trance made aware 
^hat day and night have wrought to fulness there 
And Love has built our nest. 

And as in the dim grove. 
When the rains cease that hushed them long, 
'Mid glistening boughs the song-birds wake to song, 

So from our hearts deep-shrined in love. 
While the leaves throb beneath, around, above, 
The quivering notes shall throng. 



Till tenderest words found vain 
Draw back to wonder mute and deep. 
And closed lips in closed arms a silence keep, 

Subdued by memory's circling strain, — 
The wind-rapt sound that the wind brings again 
While all the willows weep. 

Then by her summoning art 
Shall memory conjure back the sere 
Autumnal Springs, from many a dying year 



THE STREAM'S SECRET, 163 

Born dead ; and, bitter to the heart, 
The very ways where now we walk apart 
Who then shall cling so near. 

And with each thought new-grown, 
Some sweet caress or some sweet name 
Low-breathed shall let me know her thought the same . 

Making me rich with every tone 
And touch of the dear heaven so long unknown 
That filled my dreams with flame. 

Pity and love shall burn 
In her pressed cheek and cherishing hands ; 
And from the living spirit of love that stands 

Between her lips to soothe and yearn, 
Each separate breath shall clasp me round in turn 
And loose my spirit's bands. 

Oh passing sweet and dear, 
Then when the worshipped form and face 
Are felt at length in darkling close embrace ; 

Round which so oft the sun shone clear, 
With mocking light and pitiless atmosphere. 
In many an hour and place. 



i64 



THE STREAM'S SECRET. 



Ah me ! with what proud gro^vth 
Shall that hour's thirsting race be run ; 
While, for each several sweetness still begun 

Afresh, endures love's endless drouth : 
Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet 
Each singly wooed and won. ["^outh, 

Yet most with the sweet soul 
Shall love's espousals then be knit ; 
What time the governing cloud sheds peace from it 

O'er tremulous wings that touch the goal, 
And on the unmeasured height of Love's control 
The lustral fires are lit. 

Therefore, when breast and cheek 
Now part, from long embraces free, — 
Each on the other gazing shall but see 

A self that has no need to speak : 
All things unsought, yet nothing more to seek, — 
One love in unity. 



water wandering past, — 
Albeit to thee I speak this thing, 
O water, thou that wanderest whispering:. 



THE STREAM'S SECRET. r6? 

Thou keep'st thy counsel to the last. 
What spell upon thy bosom should Love cast. 
Its secret thence to wring? 

Nay, must thou hear the tale 
Of the past days, — the heavy debt 
Of life that obdurate time withholds, — ere yet 

To win thine ear these prayers prevail, 
And by thy voice Love's self with high All-hail 
Yield up the amulet? 

How should all this be told ? — 
All the sad sum of wayworn days ; — 
Heart's anguish in the impenetrable maze ; 

And on the waste uncolored wold 
The visible burthen of the sun grown cold 
And the moon's laboring gaze ? 

Alas I shall hope be nurs'd 
On life's all-succoring breast in vain, 
And made so perfect only to be slain ? 
Or shall not rather the sweet thirst 
Even yet rejoice the heart with warmth dispersed 
And strength grown fair again ? 



106 THE STREAM'S SECRET 

Stands it not by the door-- 
Love's Hour — till she and I shall meet • 
With bodiless form and unapparent feet 

That cast no shadow yet before, 
Though round its head the dawn begins to pour 
The breath that makes day sweet? 

Its eyes invisible 
Watch till the dial's thin-thrown shade 
Be born, — yea, till the journeying line be laid 

Upon the point that wakes the spell, 
And there in lovelier light than tongue can tell 
Its presence stand array'd. 

Its soul remembers yet 
Those sunless hours that passed it by ; 
And still it hears the nighf s disconsolate cry, 

And feels the branches wringing wet 
Cast on its brow, that may not once forget, 
Dumb tears from the blind sky. 

But oh I when now her foot 
Draws near, for whose sake night and day 
Were long in weary longing sighed away,— 



THE STREAM'S SECRET. 167 

The hour of Love, 'mid airs grown mute, 
Shall sing beside the door, and Love's ow^n lute 
Thrill to the passionate lay. 

Thou know'st, for Love has told 
Witliin thine ear, O stream, how soon 
That song shall lift its sweet appointed tune. 

O tell me, for my lips are cold. 
And in my veins the blood is waxing old 
Even while I beg the boon. 

So, in that hour of sighs 
Assuaged, shall we beside this stone 
Yield thanks for grace ; while in thy mirror shown 

The twofold image softly lies, 
Until we kiss, and each in other's eyes 
Is imaged all alone. 

Still silent? Can no art 
Of Love's then move thy pity ? Nay, 
To thee let nothing come that owns his sway : 

Let happy lovers have no part 
With thee ; nor even so sad and poor a heart 
As thou hast spurned to-day. 



i68 THE STREAM'S SECRET. 

To-day ? Lo ! night is here. 
The glen grows heavy with some veil 
Risen from the earth or falFn to make earth pale; 

And all stands hushed to eye and ear, 
Until the night-wind shake the shade like fear 
And every covert quail. 

Ah ! by another wave 
On other airs the hour must come 
Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home. 

Between the lips of the low cave 
Against that night the lapping waters lave, 
And the dark lips are dumb. 

But there Love's self doth stand. 
And witli Life's weary wings far flown. 
And with Death's eyes that make the water moan, 

Gathers the water in his hand : 
And they that drink know nought of sky or land 
But only love alone. 

O soul-sequestered face 
Far off', — O were that night but now ! 
So even beside that stream even I and thou 



THE STREAM'S SECRET, 169 

Through thirsting lips should draw Love*s grace, 
And in the zone of that supreme embrace 
Bind aching breast and brow. 

O water whispering 
Still through the dark into mine ears. — 
As with mine eyes, is it not now with hers ? — 

Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, 
Wan water, wandering water weltering, 
This hidden tide of tears. 



IT© 



THE CARD-DEALER. 

Could you not drink her gaze like wine? 

Yet though its splendor swoon 
Into the silence languidly 

As a tune into a tune, 
Those eyes unravel the coiled nigh 

And know the stars at noon. 

The gold thaf s heaped beside her hand, Mi 

In truth rich prize it were ; 
And rich the dreams that wreathe her brow* 

With magic stillness there ; 
And he were rich who should unwind 

That woven golden hair. 

Around her, where she sits, the dance 
Now breathes its eager heat ; 



THE CARD-DEALER, 171 

And not more lightly or more true 

Fall there the dancers* feet 
Than fall her cards on the bright board 

As 'twere an heart that beat. 



Her fingers let them softly through, 

Smooth polished silent things ; 
And each one as it falls reflects 

In swift light-shadowings, 
Blood-red and purple, green and blue, 

The great eyes of her rings. 

Whom plays she with ? With thee, who lov'rt 

Those gems upon her hand ; 
With me, who search her secret brows ; 

With all men, bless'd or bann'd. 
We play together, she and we, 

Within a vain strange land : 

A land without any order, — 

Day even as night, (one saith,) — 

Where who lieth down ariseth not 
Nor the sleeper awakeneth ; 



T72 



THE CARD-DEALER, 



A land of darkness as darkness itself 
And of the shadow of death. 

What be her cards, you ask ? Even these : — 

The heart, that doth but crave 
More, having fed ; the diamond. 

Skilled to make base seem brave ; 
The club, for smiting in the dark ; 

The spade, to dig a grave. 

And do you ask what game she plays? 

With me 'tis lost or won ; 
With thee it is playing still ; with him 

It is not well begun ; 
But *tis a game she plays with all 

Beneath the sway o' the sun. 



Thou seest the card that falls, — she knows 

The card that followeth : 
Her game in thy tongue is called Life, 

As ebbs thy daily breath : 
When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her tongue 

And know she calls it Death. 



173 



MY SISTER'S SLEEP.* 

She fell asleep on Christmas Eve : 
At length the long-ungranted shade 
Of weary eyelids overweigh'd 

The pain nought else might yet relieve. 

Our mother, who had leaned all day 
Over the bed from chime to chime, 
Then raised herself for the first time, 

And as she sat her down, did pray. 

Her little work-table was spread 
With work to finish. For the glare 
Made by her candle, she had care 

To work some distance from the bed. 

* This little poem, written in 1847, was printed in a peri- 
odical at the outset of 1850. The metre, which is used by 
several old English writers, became celebrated a month or 
two later on the publication of ' Ifi Memoriam.'' 



/4 MY SISTER'S SLEEP. 

Without, there was a cold moon up, 
Of winter radiance sheer and thin ; 
The hollow halo it was in 

Was like an icy crystal cup. 

Through the small room, with subtle sound 
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove 
And reddened. In its dim alcove 

The mirror shed a clearness round. 

I had been sitting up some nights, 
And my tired mind felt weak and blank ; 
Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank 

The stillness and the broken lights. 

Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindlmg years 
Heard in each hour, crept off; and then 
The ruffled silence spread again. 

Like water that a pebble stirs. 

Our mother rose from where she sat : 
Her needles, as she laid them down, 
Met lightly, and her silken gown 

Settled : no other noise than that. 



MV S/STEJ^'S SLEEP. 175 

Glory unto the Newly Born ! * 
So, as said angels, she did say ; 
Because we were in Christmas Day, 
Though it would still be long till morn. 

Just then in the room over us 

There was a pushing back of chairs, 
As some who had sat unawares 

So late, now heard the hour, and rose. 

With anxious softly-stepping haste 
Our mother went where Margaret lay. 
Fearing the sounds overhead — should they 

Have broken her long watched-for rest I 

She stooped an instant, calm, and turned ; 

But suddenly turned back again ; 

And all her features seemed in pain 
With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned. 

For my part, I but hid my tace, 

And held my breath, and spoke no word : 
There was none spoken ; but I heard 

The silence for a little space. 



,76 ASPECTA MEDUSA. 

Our mother bowed herself and wept : 
And both my arms fell, and I said, 
' God knows I knew that she was dead.* 

And there, all white, my sister slept. 

Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn 
A little after twelve o'clock 
We said, ere the first quarter struck, 

♦ Christ's blessing on the newly born I * 



ASPECTA MEDUSA. 

Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed, 
Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's head 
Till o'er a fount he held it, bade her lean. 
And mirrored in the wave was safely seen 
That death she lived by. 

Let not thine eyes know 
Any forbidden thing itself, although 
It once should save as well as kill : but be 
Its shadow upon life enough for thee. 



177 



A NEW YEAR'S BURDEN. 

Along the grass sweet airs are blown 

Our way this day in Spring. 
Of all the songs that we have known 
Now which one shall we sing? 

Not that, my love, ah no I — 
Not this, my love? why, sol — 
Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go 

The grove is all a pale frail mist. 

The new year sucks the sun. 
Of all the kisses that we kissed 
Now which shall be the one ? 

Not that, my love, ah no ! — 
Not this, my love ? — heigh-ho 
For all the sweets that all the winds can blow I 

The branches cross above our eyes, 

The skies are in a net : 
And what*s the thing beneath the skies 
We two would most forget ? 

Not birth, my love, no, no, — 
Not death, my love, no, no, — 
The love once ours, but ours long hours ago. 



178 



EVEN SO. 

So it IS, my dear. 
All such things touch secret string* 
For heavy hearts to hear. 
So it is, my dear. 

Very like indeed : 
Sea and sky, afar, on high. 
Sand and stre'vn seaweed, -— 

Very like indeed. 

But the sea stands spread 
As one wall with the flat skies. 
Where the lean black craft like flies 

Seem well-nigh stagnated. 

Soon to drop ofl* dead. 

Seemed it so to us 
When I was thine and thou wast mine^ 
And all these things were thus, 
But all our world in us ? 

Could we be so now ? 
Not if all beneath heaven's pall 
Lay dead but I and thou, 
Could we be so now I 



179 



AN OLD SONG ENDED. 

^Hov) should I your true love know 

From another one?* 
' By his cockle-hat and staff 

And his sandal-shoon* 

* And what signs have told you now 

That he hastens home ? * 

* Lo ! the Spring is nearly gone, 

He is nearly come.' 

* For a token is there nought, 

Say, that he should bring? * 

* He will bear a ring I gave 

And another ring.* 

* How may I, when he shall ask, 

Tell him who lies there ? * 
'Nay, but leave my face unveiled 
And unbound my hair.* 

* Can you say to me some word 

I shall say to him ? * 
Say Fm looking in his eyes 
Though my eves are dim.* 



i8o 



DOWN STREAM. 

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote 

The river-reaches wind, 
The whispering trees accept the breeze, 

The ripple's cool and kind : 
With love low-whispered 'twixt the shores, 

With rippling laughters gay, 
With white arms bared to ply the oars, 

On last year's first of May. 

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote 

The river's brimmed with rain. 
Through close-met banks and parted banks 

Now near now far again : 
With parting tears caressed to smiles, 

With meeting promised soon. 
With every sweet vow that beguiles, 

On last year's first of June. 



Between Holmscote and Hurstcote 
The river's flecked with foam, 



DOWN STREAM. i8i 

'Neath shuddering clouds that hang m shrouds 

And lost winds wild for home : 
With infant wailings at the breast, 

With homeless steps astray, 
With wanderings shuddering tow'rds one rest 

On this year's first of May. 

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote 

The summer river flows 
With doubled flight of moons by night 

And lilies' deep repose : 
With lo ! beneath the moon's white stare 

A white face not the moon, 
With lilies meshed in tangled hair, 

On this year's first of June. 

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote 

A troth was given and riven, 
From heart's trust grew one life to two, 

Two lost lives cry to Heaven : 
With banks spread calm to meet the sky. 

With meadows newly mowed, 
The harvest-paths of glad July, 

The sweet school-children's road. 



l82 



WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. 

\Zth November, 1852. 

' Victory ! * 
So once more the cry must be. 
Duteous mourning we fulfil 
In God's name ; but by God's will. 
Doubt not, the last word is still 

' Victory 1 ' 

Funeral, 
In the music round this pall, 
Solemn grief yields earth to earth ; 
But what tones of solemn mirth 
In the pageant of new birth 

Rise and fall ? 



For indeed, 
If our eyes were opened, 

Who shall say what escort floats 



WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. 183 

Here, which breath nor gleam denotes, — 
Fiery horses, chariots 
Fire-footed ? 

Trumpeter, 
Even thy call he may not hear ; 
Long-known voice for ever past, 
Till with one more trumpet-blast 
Gc/d's assuring word at last- 

Reach his ear. 

Multitude, 
Hold your breath in reverent mood : 
For while earth's whole kindred stand 
Mute even thus on either hand. 
This soul's labor shall be scann'd 

And found good. 

Cherubim, 
Lift ye not even now your hymn ? 
Lo ! once lent for human lack, 
Michael's sword is rendered back. 
Thrills not now the starry track, 

Seraphim ? 



i84 WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. 

Gabriel, 
Since the gift of thine ' All hail ! * 
Out of Heaven no time hath brought 
Gift with fuller blessing fraught 
Than the peace which this man wrought 

Passing well. 

Be no word 
Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorrU 
Say : * 'Twas thus in His decrees 
Who Himself, the Prince of Peace, 
For His harvest's high increase 

Sent a sword.* 

Veterans, 
He by whom the neck of France 
Then was given unto your heel, 
Timely sought, may lend as well 
To your sons his terrible 

Countenance. 

Waterloo ! 
As the last grave must renew. 
Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain, — 



WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL, 185 

So methinks upon thy plain 
Falls some presage in the rain. 
In the dew. 

And O thou, 
Watching with an exile's brow 
Unappeased, o'er death's dumb flood ; — 
Lo ! the saving strength of God 
In some new heart's English blood 

Slumbers now. 

Emperor, 
Is this all thy work was for? — 
Thus to see thy self-sought aim, 
Yea thy titles, yea thy name, 
In another's shame, to shame 

Bandied o'er ? * 

Wellington, 
Thy great work is but begun. 
With quick seed his end is rife 
Whose long tale of conquering strife 
Shows no triumph like his life 

Lost and won. 

♦ Date of the Coup cP Etat: 2nd December, 1851. 



i86 



WORLD'S WORTH. 

'Tis of the Father Hilary. 

He strove, but could not pray ; so took 

The steep-coiled stair, where his feet shook 
A sad bhnd echo. Ever up 

He toiled. 'Twas a sick sway of air 

That autumn noon within the stair, 
As dizzy as a turning cup. 

His brain benumbed him, void and thin ; 

He shut his eyes and felt it spin ; 

The obscure deafness hemmed him in. 
He said : * O world, what world for me ? * 



He leaned unto the balcony 

Where the chime keeps the night and day ; 

It hurt his brain, he could not pray. 
He had his face upon the stone : 

Deep 'twixt the narrow shafts, his eye 

Passed all the roofs to the stark sky. 
Swept with no wing, with wind alone. 



WORLD'S WORTH. 187 

Close to his feet the sky did shake 
With wind in pools that the rains make : 
The ripple set his eyes to ache. 
He said : * O worid, what worid for me ? ' 

He stood within the mystery 

Girding God's blessed Eucharist : 

The organ and the chant had ceas'd. 
The last words paused against his ear 

Said from the altar : drawn round him 

The gathering rest was dumb and dim. 
And now the sacring-bell rang clear 

And ceased ; and all was awe, — the breath 

Of God in man that warranteth 

The inmost utmost things of faith. 
He said : ' O God, my world in Thee ! ' 



i8S 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

* Sister,' said busy Amelotte 

To listless Aloyse ; 

* Along your wedding-road the wheat 
Bends as to hear your horse's feet, 
And the noonday stands still for heat* 

Amelotte laughed into the air 

With eyes that sought the sun : 
But where the walls in long brocade 
Were screened, as one who is afraid 
Sat Aloyse within the shade. 



And even in shade was gleam enough 

To shut out full repose 
From the bride's 'tiring-chamber, which 
Was like the inner altar-niche 
Whose dimness worship has made rich. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 189 

Within the window's heaped recess 
The light was counterchanged 
In blent reflexes manifold 
From perfume-caskets of wrought gold 
And gems the bride's hair could not hold 

All thrust together : and with these 
A sUm-curved lute, which now, 
At Amelotte's sudden passing there. 
Was swept in somewise unaware, 
And shook to music the close air. 

Against the haloed lattice-panes 

The bridesmaid sunned her breast 
Then to the glass turned tall and free, 
And braced and shifted daintily 
Her loin-belt through her cote-hardie. 

The belt was silver, and the clasp 

Of lozenged arm-bearings ; 
A world of mirrored tints minute 
The rippling sunshine wrought into 't. 
That flushed her hand and warmed her foot. 



I90 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

At least an hour had Aloyse, — ■ 

Her jewels in her hair, — 
Her white gown, as became a bride, 
Quartered in silver at each side, — 
Sat thus aloof, as if to hide. 

Over her bosom, that lay still. 

The vest was rich in grain, 
With close pearls wholly overset : 
Around her throat the fastenings met 
Of chevesayle and mantelet. 

Her arms were laid along her lap 

With the hands open : Hfe 
Itself did seem at fault in her : 
Beneath the drooping brows, the stir 
Of thought made noonday heavier. 

Long sat she silent ; and then raised 

Her head, with such a gasp 
As while she summoned breath to speak 
Fanned high that furnace in the cheek 
But sucked the heart-pulse cold and weak. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 191 

(Oh gather round her now, all ye 
Past seasons of her fear, — 
Sick springs, and summers deadly cold ! 
To flight your hovering wings unfold, 
For now your secret shall be told. 

Ye many sunlights, barbed with darts 

Of dread detecting flame, — 
Gaunt moonlights that Hke sentinels 
Went past with iron clank of bells, — 
Draw round and render up your spells !) 

' Sister,' said Aloyse, ' I had 
A thing to tell thee of 
Long since, and could not. But do thou 
Kneel first in prayer awhile, and bow 
Thine heart, and I will tell thee now.' 

Amelotte wondered with her eyes ; 

But her heart said in her : 
* Dear Aloyse would have me pray 
Because the awe she feels to-day 
Must need more prayers than she can say.' 



192 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

So Amelotte put by the folds 
That covered up her feet, 
And knelt, — beyond the arras'd gloom 
And the hot window's dull perfume, — 
Where day was stillest in the room. 

' Queen Mary, hear,' she said, ' and say 

To Jesus the Lord Christ, 
This bride's new joy, which He confers, 
New joy to many ministers. 
And many griefs are bound in hers.* 

The bride turned in her chair, and hid 

Her face against the back, 
And took her pearl-girt elbows in 
Her hands, and could not yet begin. 
But shuddering, uttered, ' Urscelyn I * 

Most weak she was ; for as she pressed 

Her hand against her throat, 
Along the arras she let trail 
Her face, as if all heart did fail, 
And sat with shut eyes, dumb and pale. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 193 

Amelotte still was on her knees 

As she had kneeled to pray. 
Deeming her sister swooned, she thought, 
At first, some succor to have brought ; 
But Aloyse rocked, as one distraught 

She would have pushed the lattice wide 

To gain what breeze might be ; 
But marking that no leaf once beat 
The outside casement, it seemed meet 
Not to bring in more scent and heat. 

So she said only : * Aloyse, 

Sister, when happened it 
At any time that the bride came 
To ill, or spoke in fear of shame, 
When speaking first the bridegroom's name ? * 

A bird had out its song and ceased 

Ere the bride spoke. At length 
She said : * The name is as the thing : — 
Sin hath no second christening. 
And shame is all that shame can bring. 



r94 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

* In divers places many an while 

I would have told thee this ; 
But faintness took me, or a fit 
Like fever. God would not permit 
That I should change thine eyes with it. 

' Yet once I spoke, hadst thou but heard : 

That time we wandered out 
All the sun's hours, but missed our way 
When evening darkened, and so lay 
The whole night covered up in hay. 

'At last my face was hidden : so, 
Having God's hint, I paused 
Not long ; but drew myself more near 
Where thou wast laid, and shook off fear, 
And whispered quick into thine ear 

* Something of the whole tale. At first 

I lay and bit my hair 
For the sore silence thou didst keep : 
Till, as thy breath came long and deep, 
I knew that thou hadst been asleep. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 195 

' The moon was covered, but the stars 

Lasted till morning broke. 
Awake, thou told'st me that thy dream 
Had been of me, — that all did seem 
At jar, — but that it was a dream. 

* I knew God's hand and might not speak. 

After that night I kept 
Silence and let the record swell : 
Till now there is much more to tell 
Which must be told out ill or well.* 

She paused then, weary, with dry lips 

Apart. From the outside 
By fits there boomed a dull report 
From where i' the hanging tennis-court 
The bridegroom's retinue made sport. 

The room lay still in dusty glare, 
Having no sound through it 
Except the chirp of a caged bird 
That came and ceased : and if she stirred, 
Amelotte's raiment could be heard. 



196 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

Quoth Amelotte : * The night this chanced 

Was a late summer night 
Last year ! What secret, for Christ's love, 
Keep'st thou since then ? Mary above ! 
What thing is this thou speakest of ? 

* Mary and Christ ! Lest when 'tis told 

I should be prone to wrath, — 
This prayer beforehand ! How she errs 
Soe'er, take count of grief like hers. 
Whereof the days are turned to years ! * 

She bowed her neck, and having said, 

Kept on her knees to hear ; 
And then, because strained thought demands 
Quiet before it understands, 
Darkened her eyesight with her hands. 

So when at last her sister spoke, 

She did not see the pain 
O' the mouth nor the ashambd eyes, 
But marked the breath that came in sighs 
And the half-pausing for replies. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 197 

This was the bride's sad prelude-strain : — 

* I' the convent where a girl 
I dwelt till near my womanhood, 
I had but preachings of the rood 
And Aves told in solitude 

* To spend my heart on : and my hand 

Had but the weary skill 
To eke out upon silken cloth 
Christ's visage, or the long bright growth 
Of Mary's hair, or Satan wroth. 

' So when at last I went, and thou, 

A child not known before, 
Didst come to take the place I left, — 
My limbs, after such lifelong theft 
Of life, could be but little deft 

* In all that ministers delight 

To noble women : I 
Had learned no word of youth's discourse, 
Nor gazed on games of warriors. 
Nor trained a hound, nor ruled a horse. 



f98 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

* Besides, the daily life i' the sun 
Made me at first hold back. 
To thee this came at once ; to me 
It crept with pauses timidly ; 
I am not blithe and strong like thee. 

' Yet my feet liked the dances well, 

The songs went to my voice, 
The music made me shake and weep ; 
And often, all night long, my sleep 
Gave dreams I had been fain to keep. 

' But though I loved not holy things, 

To hear them scorned brought pain, — 
They were my childhood ; and these dames 
Were merely perjured in saints' names 
And fixed upon saints' days for games. 

'And sometimes when my father rode 

To hunt with his loud friends, 
I dared not bring him to be quaff d. 
As my wont was, his stirrup- draught. 
Because they jested so and laugh'd. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 199 

* At last one day my brothers said, 

" The girl must not grow thus, — 
Bring her a jennet, — she shall ride." 
They helped my mounting, and I tried 
To laugh with them and keep their side. 

* But breaks were rough and bents were steep 

Upon our path that day : 
My palfrey threw me ; and I went 
Upon men's shoulders home, sore spent, 
While the chase followed up the scent. 

* Our shrift-father (and he alone 

Of all the household there 
Had skill in leechcraft,) was away 
When I reached home. I tossed, and lay 
Sullen with anguish the whole day. 

* For the day passed ere some one brought 

To mind that in the hunt 
Rode a young lord she named, long bred 
Among the priests, whose art (she said) 
Might chance to stand me in much stead. 



200 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

* I bade them seek and summon him : 

But long ere this, the chase 
Had scattered, and he was not found. 
I lay in the same weary stound. 
Therefore, until the night came round. 

* It was dead night and near on twelve 

When the horse-tramp at length 
Beat up the echoes of the court : 
By then, my feverish breath was short 
With pain the sense could scarce support, 

* My fond nurse sitting near my feet 

Rose softly, — her lamp's flame 
Held in her hand, lest it should make 
My heated lids, in passing, ache ; 
And she passed softly, for my sake. 

* Returning soon, she brought the youth 

They spoke of. Meek he seemed. 
But good knights held him of stout heart. 
He was akin to us in part. 
And bore our shield, but barred athwart. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

* I now remembered to have seen 

His face, and heard him praised 
For letter-lore and medicine, 
Seeing his youth was nurtured in 
Priests' knowledge, as mine own had been,* 

The bride's voice did not weaken here, 

Yet by her sudden pause 
She seemed to look for questioning ; 
Or else (smaU need though) 'twas to bring 
Well to her mind the bygone thing. 

Her thought, long stagnant, stirred by speech, 

Gave her a sick recoil ; 
As, dip thy fingers through the green 
That masks a pool, — where they have been 
The naked depth is black between. 

Amelotte kept her knees ; her face 

Was shut within her hands. 
As it had been throughout the tale ; 
Her forehead's whiteness might avail 
Nothing to say if she were pale. 



20 1 



202 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

Although the lattice had dropped loose, 

There was no wind ; the heat 
Being so at rest that Amelotte 
Heard far beneath the plunge and float 
Of a hound swimming in the moat. 

Some minutes since, two rooks had toiled 

Home to the nests that crowned 
Ancestral ash-trees. Through the glare 
Beating again, they seemed to tear 
With that thick caw the woof o' the air. 

But else, 'twas at the dead of noon 

Absolute silence ; all, 
From the raised bridge and guarded sconce 
To green-clad places of pleasaunce 
Where the long lake was white with swans. 



Amelotte spoke not any word 

Nor moved she once ; but felt 
Between her hands in narrow space 
Her own hot breath upon her face, 
And kept in silence the same place. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 203 

Aloyse did not hear at all 

The sounds without. She heard 
The inward voice (past help obey'd) 
Which might not slacken nor be stay'd, 
But urged her till the whole were said. 

Therefore she spoke again : * That night 

But little could be done : 
My foot, held in my nurse's hands, 
He swathed up heedfully in bands, 
And for my rest gave close commands. 

* I slept till noon, but an ill sleep 

Of dreams : through all that day 
My side was stiff and caught the breath ; 
Next day, such pain as sickeneth 
Took me, and I was nigh to death. 

* Life strove. Death claimed me for his own 

Through days and nights : but now 
'Twas the good father tended me. 
Having returned. Still I did see 
The youth I spoke of constantly. 



204 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

' For he would with my brothers come 

To stay beside my couch, 
And fix my eyes against his own, 
Noting my pulse ; or else alone, 
To sit at gaze while I made moan. 

* (Some nights I knew he kept the watch, 

Because my women laid 
The rushes thick for his steel shoes.) 
Through many days this pain did use 
The life God would not let me lose. 

' At length, with my good nurse to aid, 

I could walk forth again : 
And still, as one who broods or grieves, 
At noons I'd meet him and at eves. 
With idle feet that drove the leaves. 

' The day when I first walked alone 
Was thinned in grass and leaf. 
And yet a goodly day o' the year : 
The last bird's cry upon mine ear 
Left my brain weak, it was so clear. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 205 

* The tears were sharp within mine eyes ; 

I sat down, being glad, 
And wept ; but stayed the sudden flow 
Anon, for footsteps that fell slow ; 
'Twas that youth passed me, bowing low. 

' He passed me without speech ; but when, 

At least an hour gone by, 
Rethreading the same covert, he 
Saw I was still beneath the tree. 
He spoke and sat him down with me. 

* Little we said ; nor one heart heard 

Even what was said within ; 
And, faltering some farewell, I soon 
Rose up ; but then i' the autumn noon 
My feeble brain whirled like a swoon. 

' He made me sit. " Cousin, I grieve 

Your sickness stays by you." 
" I would," said I, " that you did err 
So grieving. I am wearier 
Than death, of the sickening dying year." 



2o6 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

' He answered : " If your weariness 

Accepts a remedy, 
I hold one and can give it you." 
I gazed : " What ministers thereto. 
Be sure," I said, " that I will do." 

' He went on quickly : — 'Twas a cure 

He had not ever named 
Unto our kin, lest they should stint 
Their favor, for some foolish hint 
Of wizardry or magic in't : 

* But that if he were let to come 
Within my bower that night, 
(My women still attending me. 
He said, while he remain'd there,) he 
Could teach me the cure privily. 



* I bade him come that night. He came j 

But little in his speech 
Was cure or sickness spoken of. 
Only a passionate fierce love 
That clamored upon God above. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 207 

* My women wondered, leaning close 

Aloof. At mine own heart 
I think great wonder was not stirr'd. 
I dared not listen, yet I heard 
His tangled speech, word within word. 

* He craved my pardon first, — all else 

Wild tumult. In the end 
He remained silent at my feet 
Fumbling the rushes. Strange quick heat 
Made all the blood of my life meet. 

' And lo ! I loved him. I but said, 

If he would leave me then. 
His hope some future might forecast. 
His hot lips stung my hand : at last 
My damsels led him forth in haste.' 

The bride took breath to pause ; and turned 

Her gaze where Amelotte 
Knelt, — the gold hair upon her back 
Quite still in all its threads, — the track 
Of her still shadow sharp and black. 



2o8 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

That listening without sight had grown 

To stealthy dread ; and now 
That the one sound she had to mark 
Left her alone too, she was stark 
Afraid, as children in the dark. 

Her fingers felt her temples beat ; 

Then came that brain-sickness 
Which thinks to scream, and murmureth ; 
And pent between her hands, the breath 
Was damp against her face like death. 

Her arms both fell at once ; but when 

She gasped upon the light, 
Her sense returned. She would have pray'd 
To change whatever words still stay'd 
Behind, but felt there was no aid. 

So she rose up, and having gone 

Within the window's arch 
Once more, she sat there, all intent 
On torturing doubts, and once more bent 
To hear, in mute bewilderment. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 209 

But Aloyse still paused. Thereon 

Amelotte gathered voice 
In somewise from the torpid fear 
Coiled round her spirit. Low but clear 
She said : ^ Speak, sister ; for I hear.' 

But Aloyse threw up her neck 

And called the name of God : — 

* Judge, God, 'twixt her and me to-day ! 
She knows how hard this is to say, 

Yet will not have one word away.' 

Her sister was quite silent. Then 

Afresh : — * Not she, dear Lord ! 
Thou be my judge, on Thee I call ! ' 
She ceased, — her forehead smote the wall : 

* Is there a God,' she said, ' at all? ' 

Amelotte shuddered at the soul, 

But did not speak. The pause 
Was long this time. At length the bride 
Pressed her hand hard against her side, 
And trembhng between shame and pride 



210 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

Said by fierce effort : * From that night 

Often at nights we met : 
That night, his passion could but rave : 
The next, what grace his lips did crave 
I knew not, but I know I gave.' 

Where Amelotte was sitting, all 

The light and warmth of day- 
Were so upon her without shade. 
That the thing seemed by sunshine made 
Most foul and wanton to be said. 

She would have questioned more, and known 

The whole truth at its worst, 
But held her silent, in mere shame 
Of day. Twas only these words came : — 
* Sister, thou hast not said his name.' 



' Sister,' quoth Aloyse, ' thou know'st 

His name. I said that he 
Was in a manner of our kin. 
Waiting the title he might win. 
They called him the Lord Urscelyn.' 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 2ti 

The bridegroom's name, to Amelotte 

Daily familiar, — heard 
Thus in this dreadful history, — 
Was dreadful to her ; as might be 
Thine own voice speaking unto thee. 

The day's mid-hour was almost full ; 

Upon the dial-plate 
The angel's sword stood near at One. 
An hour's remaining yet ; the sun 
Will not decrease till all be done. 

Through the bride's lattice there crept in 

At whiles (from where the train 
Of minstrels, till the marriage-call. 
Loitered at windows of the wall,) 
Stray lute-notes, sweet and musical. 

They clung in the green growths and moss 

Against the outside stone ; 
Low like dirge -wail or requiem 
They murmured, lost 'twixt leaf and stem : 
There was no wind to carry them. 



212 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

Amelotte gathered herself back 

Into the wide recess 
That the sun flooded : it o'erspread 
Like flame the hair upon her head 
And fringed her face with burning red. 

All things seemed shaken and at change : 

A silent place o' the hUls 
She knew, into her spirit came : 
Within herself she said its name 
And wondered was it still the same. 

The bride (whom silence goaded) now 

Said strongly, — her despair 
By stubborn will kept underneath : — 

* Sister, 'twere well thou didst not breathe 
That curse of thine. Give me my wreath.' 

* Sister,' said Amelotte, ' abide 

In peace. Be God thy judge, 
As thou hast said — not I. For me, 
I merely will thank God that he 
Whom thou hast loved loveth thee.' 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 213 

Then Aloyse lay back, and laughed 

With wan lips bitterly, 
Saying, * Nay, thank thou God for this, — 
That never any soul like his 
Shall have its portion where love is.* 

Weary of wonder, Amelotte 

Sat silent : she would ask 
No more, though all was unexplained : 
She was too weak ; the ache still pained 
Her eyes, — her forehead's pulse remamed 

The silence lengthened. Aloyse 

Was fain to turn her face 
Apart, to where the arras told 
Two Testaments, the New and Old, 
In shapes and meanings manifold. 

One solace that was gained, she hid. 

Her sister, from whose curse 
Her heart recoiled, had blessed instead > 
Yet would not her pride have it said 
How much the blessing comforted. 



214 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

Only, on looking round again 

After some while, the face 
Which from the arras turned away 
Was more at peace and less at bay 
With shame than it had been that day. 

She spoke right on, as if no pause 

Had come between her speech ; 
' That year from warmth grew bleak and pass'd ; ' 
She said ; ' the days from first to last 
How slow, — woe's me ! the nights how fast 1 ' 

' From first to last it was not known : 

My nurse, and of my train 
Some four or five, alone could tell 
What terror kept inscrutable : 
There was good need to guard it well. 

' Not the guilt only made the shame, 

But he was without land 
And born amiss. He had but come 
To train his youth here at our home 
And, being man, depart therefrom. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

' Of the whole time each single day 
Brought fear and great unrest : 
It seemed that all would not avail 
Some once, — that my close watch would fail, 
And some sign, somehow, tell the tale. 

' The noble maidens that I knew. 

My fellows, oftentimes 
Midway in talk or sport, would look 
A wonder which my fears mistook. 
To see how I turned faint and shook. 

' They had a game of cards, where each 

By painted arms might find 
What knight she should be given to. 
Ever with trembling hand I threw 
Lest I should learn the thing I knew. 

' And once it came. And Aure d'Honvaulx 

Held up the bended shield 
And laughed : '' Gramercy for our share ! — 
If to our bridal we but fare 
To smutch the blazon that we bear ! '' 



211: 



21 6 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

* But proud Denise de Villenbois 

Kissed me, and gave her wench 
The card, and said : " If in these bowers 
You women play at paramours, 
You must not mix your game with ours.'* 

' And one upcast it from her hand : 

" Lo ! see how high he'll soar ! " 
But then their laugh was bitterest ; 
For the wind veered at fate's behest 
And blew it back into my breast. 

' Oh ! if I met him in the day 

Or heard his voice, — at meals 
Or at the Mass or through the hall, — 
A look turned towards me would appal 
My heart by seeming to know all. 

* Yet I grew curious of my shame. 

And sometimes in the church. 
On hearing such a sin rebuked, 
Have held my girdle-glass unhooked 
To see how such a woman looked. 



THE B RID EPS PRELUDE. 217 

* But if at night he did not come, 

I lay all deadly cold 
To think they might have smitten sore 
And slain him, and as the night wore, 
His corpse be lying at my door. 

* And entering or going forth, 

Our proud shield o'er the gate 
Seemed to arraign my shrinking eyes. 
With tremors and unspoken lies 
The year went past me in this wise. 

* About the spring of the next year 

An ailing fell on me ; 
(I had been stronger till the spring ;) 
'Twas mine old sickness gathering, 
I thought j but 'twas another thing. 

* I had such yearnings as brought tear% 

And a wan dizziness : 
Motion, like feeling, grew intense ; 
Sight was a haunting evidence 
And sound a pang that snatched the sense. 



;(8 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

' It now was hard on that great ill 

Which lost our wealth from us 
And all our lands. Accursed be 
The peevish fools of liberty 
Who will not let themselves be free ! 

* The Prince was fled into the west : 

A price was on his blood, 
But he was safe. To us his friends 
He left that ruin which attends 
The strife against God's secret ends. 

* The league dropped all asunder, — lord. 

Gentle and serf. Our house 
Was marked to fall. And a day came 
When half the wealth that propped our name 
Went from us in a wind of flame. 

' Six hours I lay upon the wall 

And saw it bum. But when 
It clogged the day in a black bed 
Of louring vapor, I was led 
Down to the postern, and we fled. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

* But ere we fled, there was a voice 

Which I heard speak, and say 
That many of our friends, to shun 
Our fate, had left us and were gone. 
And that Lord Urscelyn was one. 

* That name, as was its wont, made sight 

And hearing whirl. I gave 
No heed but only to the name 
I held my senses, dreading them. 
And was at strife to look the same. 

* We rode and rode. As the speed grew. 

The growth of some vague curse 
Swarmed in my brain. It seemed to me 
Numbed by the swiftness, but would be — 
That still — clear knowledge certainly. 

' Night lapsed. At dawn the sea was there 

And the sea-wind : afar 
The ravening surge was hoarse and loud, 
And underneath the dim dawn-cloud 
Each stalking wave shook like a shroud. 



219 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

* From my drawn litter I looked out 

Unto the swarthy sea, 
And knew. That voice, which late had cross'd 
Mine ears, seemed with the foam uptoss'd : 
I knew that Urscelyn was lost. 

' Then I spake all : I turned on one 

And on the other, and spake : 
My curse laughed in me to behold 
Their eyes : I sat up, stricken cold. 
Mad of my voice till all was told. 

* Oh ! of my brothers, Hugues was mute. 

And Gilles was wild and loud. 
And Raoul strained abroad his face. 
As if his gnashing wrath could trace 
Even there the prey that it must chase. 

* And round me murmured all our train. 

Hoarse as the hoarse-tongued sea ; 
Till Hugues from silence louring woke, 
And cried : " What ails the foolish folk ? 
Know ye not frenzy's lightning-stroke ? " 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 221 

' But my stern father came to them 

And quelled them with his look, 
Silent and deadly pale. Anon 
I knew that we were hastening on, 
My litter closed and the light gone. 

' And I remember all that day 

The barren bitter wind 
Without, and the sea's moaning there 
That I first moaned with unaware, 
And when I knew, shook down my hair. 

' Few followed us or faced our flight : 

Once only I could hear. 
Far in the front, loud scornful words. 
And cries I knew of hostile lords. 
And crash of spears and grind of swords. 

' It was soon ended. On that day 
Before the light had changed 
We reached our refuge ; miles of rock 
Bulwarked for war ; whose strength might mock 
Sky, sea, or man, to storm or shock. 



222 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

' Listless and feebly conscious, I 

Lay far within the night 
Awake. The many pains incurred 
That day, — the whole, said, seen or heard. 
Stayed by in me as things deferred. 

* Not long. At dawn I slept. In dreams 

All was passed through afresh 
From end to end. As the morn heaved 
Towards noon, I, waking sore aggrieved, 
That I might die, cursed God, and lived. 

' Many days went, and I saw none 

Except my women. They 
Calmed their wan faces, loving me ; 
And when they wept, lest I should see. 
Would chant a desolate melody. 

' Panic unthreatened shook my blood 

Each sunset, all the slow 
Subsiding of the turbid hght. 
I would rise, sister, as I might, 
And bathe my forehead through the night 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 223 

' To elude madness. The stark walls 
Made chill the mirk : and when 
We oped our curtains, to resume 
Sun-sickness after long sick gloom. 
The withering sea-wind walked the room. 

Tlirough the gaunt windows the great gales 

Bore in the tattered clumps 
Of waif- weed and the tamarisk-boughs ; 
And sea-mews, 'mid the storm's carouse, 
Were flung, wild-clamoring, in the house. 

' My hounds I had not ; and my hawk, 

Which they had saved for me, 
Wanting the sun and rain to beat 
His wings, soon lay with gathered feet ; 
And my flowers faded, lacking heat. 

' Such still were griefs : for grief was still 

A separate sense, untouched 
Of that despair which had become 
My life. Great anguish could benumb 
My soul, — my heart was quarrelsome. 



224 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

' Time crept. Upon a day at length 

My kinsfolk sat with me : 
That which they asked was bare and plain : 
I answered : the whole bitter strain 
Was again said, and heard again. 

' Fierce Raoul snatched his sword, and turned 

The point against my breast. 
I bared it, smiHng : " To the heart 
Strike home," I said ; " another dart 
Wreaks hourly there a deadUer smart." 

' 'Twas then my sire struck down the sword. 

And said with shaken lips : 
" She from whom all of you receive 
Your life, so smiled ; and I forgive." 
Thus, for my mother's sake, I live. 

' But I, a mother even as she. 

Turned shuddering to the wall : 
For I said : '' Great God ! and what would I do, 
When to the sword, with the thing I knew, 
I offered not one life but two ! " 



<i 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 225 

' Then I fell back from them, and lay 

Outwearied. My tired sense 
Soon filmed and settled, and like stone 
I slept ; till something made me moan, 
And I woke up at night alone. 

* I woke at midnight, cold and dazed ; 

Because I found myself 
Seated upright, with bosom bare. 
Upon my bed, combing my hair, 
Ready to go, I knew not where. 

' It dawned light day, — the last of those 

Long months of longing days. 
That noon, the change was wrought on me 
In somewise, — nought to hear or see, — 
Only a trance and agony.' 

The bride's voice failed her, from no will 
To pause. The bridesmaid leaned, 
And where the window-panes were white. 
Looked for the day : she knew not quite 
If there were either day or night. 



226 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

It seemed to Aloyse that the whole 
Day's weight lay back on her 
Like lead. The hours that did remain 
Beat their dry wings upon her brain 
Once in mid-flight, and passed again. 

There hung a cage of burnt perfumes 

In the recess : but these, 
For some hours, weak against the sun. 
Had simmered in white ash. From One 
The second quarter was begun. 

They had not heard the stroke. The air, 

Though altered with no wind, 
Breathed now by pauses, so to say : 
Each breath was time that went away, — 
Each pause a minute of the day. 

I' the almonry, the almoner. 

Hard by, had just dispensed 
Church-dole and march-dole. High and wide 
Now rose the shout of thanks, which cried 
On God that He should bless the bride. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 227 

Its echo thrilled within their feet, 

And in the furthest rooms 
Was heard, where maidens flushed and gay 
Wove with stooped necks the wreaths alway 
Fair for the virgin's marriage-day. 

The mother leaned along, in thought 

After her child ; till tears, 
Bitter, not like the wedded girl's. 
Fell down her breast along her curls, 
And ran in the close work of pearls. 

The speech ached at her heart. She said : 

^ Sweet Mary, do thou plead 
This hour with thy most blessed Son 
To let these shameful words atone, 
That I may die when I have done.' 

The thought ached at her soul. Yet now : — 

' Itself — that Hfe ' (she said,) 
' Out of my weary Hfe — when sense 
Unclosed, was gone. What evil men's 
Most evil hands had borne it thence 



228 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

'1 knew, and cursed them. Still in sleep 

I have my child ; and pray 
To know if it indeed appear 
As in my dream's perpetual sphere, 
That I — death reached — may seek it there. 

' Sleeping, I wept ; though until dark 

A fever dried mine eyes 
Kept open ; save when a tear might 
Be forced from the mere ache of sight. 
And I nursed hatred day and night. 

* Aye, and I sought revenge by spells ; 

And vainly many a time 
Have laid my face into the lap 
Of a wise woman, and heard clap 
Her thunder, the fiend's juggling trap. 

' At length I feared to curse them, lest 

From evil lips the curse 
Should be a blessing ; and would sit 
Rocking myself and stifling it 
With babbled jargon of no wit. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 2.2.(^ 

' But this was not at first : the days 

And weeks made frenzied months 
Before this came. My curses, pil'd 
Then with each hour unreconcil'd, 
Still wait for those who took my child.' 

She stopped, grown fainter. ' Amelotte, 

Surely,' she said, 'this sun 
Sheds judgment-fire from the fierce south : 
It does not let me breathe : the drouth 
Is like sand spread within my mouth.' 

The bridesmaid rose. I' the outer glare 
Gleamed her pale cheeks, and eyes 
Sore troubled ; and aweary weigh'd 
Her brows just lifted out of shade ; 
And the light jarred within her head. 

'Mid flowers fair-heaped there stood a bowl 

With water. She therein 
Through eddying bubbles slid a cup, 
And offered it, being risen up. 
Close to her sister's mouth, to sup. 



230 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

The freshness dwelt upon her sense, 

Yet did not the bride drink ; 
But she dipped in her hand anon 
And cooled her temples ; and all wan 
With lids that held their ache, went on. 

' Through those dark watches of my woe, 

Time, an ill plant, had waxed 
Apace. That year was finished. Dumb 
And blind, hfe's wheel with earth's had come 
Whhrled round : and we might seek our home. 

* Our wealth was rendered back, with wealth 

Snatched from our foes. The house 
Had more than its old strength and fame : 
But still 'neath the fair outward claim 
/rankled, — a fierce core of shame. 

' It chilled me from their eyes and lips 

Upon a night of those 
First days of triumph, as I gazed 
Listless and sick, or scarcely raised 
My face to mark the sports they praised. 



I 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 231 

*The endless changes of the dance 

Bewildered me : the tones 
Of lute and cithern struggled tow'rds 
Some sense ; and still in the last chords 
The music seemed to sing wild words. 

* My shame possessed me in the light 

And pageant, till I swooned. 
But from that hour I put my shame 
From me, and cast it over them 
By God's command and in God's name 

* For my child's bitter sake. O thou 

Once felt against my heart 
With longing of the eyes, — a pain 
Since to my heart for ever, — then 
Beheld not, and not felt again ! ' 

She scarcely paused, continuing : — 

' That year drooped weak in March ; 
And April, finding the streams dry, 
Choked, with no rain, in dust : the sky 
Shall not be fainter this July. 



232 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

* Men sickened ; beasts lay without strength ; 

The year died in the land. 
But I, already desolate, 
Said merely, sitting down to wait, — 
*' The seasons change and Time wears late." 

* For I had my hard secret told, 

In secret, to a priest ; 
With him I communed ; and he said 
The world's soul, for its sins, was sped, 
And the sun's courses numbered. 

' The year slid like a corpse afloat : 

None traflicked, — who had bread 
Did eat. That year our legions, come 
Thinned from the place of war, at home 
Found busier death, more burdensome. 

'Tidings and rumors came with them, 
The first for months. The chiefs 
Sat daily at our board, and in 
Their speech were names of friend and kin i 
One day they spoke of Urscelyn. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 233 

* The words were light, among the rest : 

Quick glance my brothers sent 
To sift the speech ; and I, struck through. 
Sat sick and giddy in full view : 
Yet did not gaze, so many knew. 

* Because in the beginning, much 

Had caught abroad, through them 
That heard my clamor on the coast : 
But two were hanged ; and then the most 
Held silence wisdom, as thou know'st. 

' That year the convent yielded thee 

Back to our home ; and thou 
Then knew'st not how I shuddered cold 
To kiss thee, seeming to enfold 
To my changed heart myself of old. 

* Then there was showing thee the house, 

So many rooms and doors ; 
Thinking the while how thou would'st start 
If once I flung the doors apart 
Of one dull chamber in my heart. 



234 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 



' And yet I longed to open it ; 

And often in that year 
Of plague and want, when side by side 
We've knelt to pray with them that died, 
My prayer was, "Show her what I hide ! " * 



TRANSLATIONS. 



237 



THREE TRANSLATIONS FROM 
FRANQOIS VILLON, 1450. 

I. 
THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES. 

Tell me now in what hidden way is 

Lady Flora the lovely Roman ? 
Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, 

Neither of them the fairer woman? 

Where is Echo, beheld of no man, 
Only heard on river and mere, — 

She whose beauty was more than human ? . 
But where are the snows of yester-year ? 

Where's H^loise, the learned nun. 
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween. 

Lost manhood and put priesthood on ? 

(From Love he won such dule and teen I) 
And where, I pray you, is the Queen 

Who willed that Buridan should steer 

Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine ? . 

But where are the snows of yester-year? 



238 TRANSLATIONS FROM VILLON. 

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, 
With a voice like any mermaiden, — 

Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, 
And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, - 
And that good Joan whom Englishmen 

At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — 
Mother of God, where are they then ? . . 

But where are the snows of yester-year? 

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, 
Where they are gone, nor yet this year, 

Except with this for an overword, — 
But where are the snows of yester-year 



n. 

TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY. 

Death, of thee do I make my moan. 
Who hadst my lady away from me, 
Nor wilt assuage thine enmity 

Till with her life thou hast mine own ; 

For since that hour my strength has flown. 
Lo ! what wrong was her life to thee. 

Death? 

Two we were, and the heart was one ; 
Which now being dead, dead I must be, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VILLON, 239 

Or seem alive as lifelessly 
As in the choir the painted stone, 

Death I 



III. 
HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY. 

Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal 
Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,- 

I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call, 
Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell, 
Albeit in nought I be commendable. 

But all mine undeserving may not mar 

Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are ; 
Without the which (as true words testify) 

No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far. 
Even in this faith I choose to live and die. 

Unto thy Son say thou that I am His, 

And to me graceless make Him gracious. 

Sad Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss. 
Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theophilus, 
Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus 



240 TRANSLATIONS FROM VILLON 

Though to the Fiend his bounden service was. 
Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass 

(Sweet Virgin that shalt have no loss thereby I) 
The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass. 

Even in this faith I choose to live and die. 

A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old, 
I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore. 

Within my parish-cloister I behold 

A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore, 
And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full sore 

One bringeth fear, the other joy to me. 

That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be, — 
Thou of whom all must ask it even as I ; 

And that which faith desires, that let it see. 
For in this faith I choose to live and die. 

O excellent Virgin Princess ! thou didst bear 
King Jesus, the most excellent comforter. 
Who even of this our weakness craved a share 

And for our sake stooped to us from on high. 
Offering to death His young life sweet and fair. 
Such as He is. Our Lord, I Him declare. 

And in this faith I choose to live and die 



241 



JOHN OF TOURS. 

(Old French,) 

John of Tours is back with peace, 
But he comes home ill at ease. 

* Good-morrow, mother.* * Good-morrow, son ; 
Your wife has borne you a little one.' 

' Go now, mother, go before, 
Make me a bed upon the floor ; 

* Very low your foot must fall, 
That my wife hear not at all.* 

As it neared the midnight toll, 
John of Tours gave up his soul. 

* Tell me now, my mother my dear, 
Whafs the crying that I hear?' 

» Daughter, if s the children wake 
Crying with their teeth that ache.' 



242 JOHN OF TOURS. 

' Tell me though, my mother my dear, 
What's the knocking that I hear?* 

♦Daughter, it's the carpenter 
Mending planks upon the stair.* 

*Tell me too, my mother my dear. 
What's the singing that I hear?* 

Daughter, it's the priests in rows 
Going round about our house.' 

* Tell me then, my mother my dear. 
What's the dress that I should wear?* 

* Daughter, any reds or blues, 
But the black is most in use.' 

' Nay, but say, my mother my dear, 
Why do you fall weeping here ? * 

* Oh I the truth must be said, — 
It's that John of Tours is dead.* 

' Mother, let the sexton know 
That the grave must be for two ; 

' Aye, and still have room to spare, 
For you must shut the baby there.* 



243 



MV FATHER'S CLOSE. 

{Old French.) 

Inside my father's close, 

(Fly away O my heart away I) 
Sweet apple-blossom blows 
So sweet. 

Three kings* daughters fair, 

(Fly away O my heart away I) 
They lie below it there 
So sweet. 

' Ah r says the eldest one, 

(Fly away O my heart away I) 
I think the day's begun 
So sweet* 



244 MV FATHER'S CLOSE, 

* Ah I * says the second one, 

(Fly away O my heart away I> 

* Far off I hear the drum 

So sweet* 

* Ah ! * si.ys the youngest one, 

(Fly away O my heart away I) 

* It*s my true love, my own. 

So sweet. 

* Oh I if he fight and win,' 

(Fly away O my heart away I) 
' I keep my love for him. 

So sweet : 
Oh I let him lose or win, 

He hath it still complete. 



245 



BEAUTY. 
{A combination from Sappho,) 

I. 

Like the sweet appU which reddens upon the topmost 
bough, 

A-top on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers for- 
got, somehow, — 

Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it 
till now. 

II. 

i ike the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found, 
Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear 

and wound. 
Until the purple blossom is trodden into tlie ground. 



246 



YOUTH AND LORDSHIP* 
{Italian Street-Song.) 

My young lord's the lover 
Of earth and sky above, 

Of youth's sway and youth's play, 
Of songs and flowers and love. 



* GIOVENTtF E SIGNORIa. 



£ GioviNE il signore, 
Ed ama molte cose, - 
I canti, le rose, 

La forza e I'amore. 

Quel che piu vuole 

Ancor non osa : 
Ahi piii che il sole, 

Piu ch' ogni rosa, 

La cara cosa, 
Donna a gioire. 

£ giovine il signore, 
Ed ama quelle cose 
Che ardor dispose 

In cuore all' amore. 

Bella fanciulla, 
Guardalo in viso ; 

Mon mancar nulla, 
Motto o sorriso ; 
Ma viso a viso 

Guarda a gradire. 

£ giovine il signore, 
Ed ama tutte cose, 



Vezzose, giojose, 
Tenenti all' amore. 

Prendilo in braccio 

Adesso o mai ; 
Per piu mi taccio, 

Che tu lo sai ; 
Bacialo e I'avrai, 

Ma non lo dire. 

£ giovine il signore, 
Ed ama ben le cose 
Che Amor nascose, 

Che mostragli Amore. 

Deh trionfando 
Non fame pruova; 

Ahime ! che quando 

Gioja piu giova, 
Allor si trova 

Presso al finire. 

£ giovine il signore, 
Ed ama tante cose, 
Le rose, le spose, 

Quante gli dona Amore. 



YOUTH AND LORDSHIP. 247 

Yet for love's desire 

Green youth lacks the daring ; 
Though one dream of fire, 

All his hours ensnaring, 

Bums the boy past bearing, — 
The dream that girls inspire. 

My young lord's the lover 

Of every burning thought 
That Love's will, that Love's skill 

Within his breast has wrought. 

Lovely girl, look on him 

Soft as music's measure ; 
Yield him, when you've won him, 

Joys and toys at pleasure j 

But to win your treasure, 
Softly look upon him. 

My young lord's the lover 

Of every tender grace 
That woman, to woo man. 

Can wear in form or face. 



248 YOUTH AND LORDSHIP. 

Take him to your bosom 
Now, girl, or never ; 

Let not your new blossom 
Of sweet kisses sever ; 
Only guard for ever 

Your boast within your bosom. 

My young lord's the lover 
Of every secret thing, 

Love-hidden, love-bidden 
This day to banqueting. 

Lovely girl, with vaunting 
Never tempt to-morrow : 

From all shapes enchanting 
Any joy can borrow. 
Still the spectre Sorrow 

Rises up for haunting. 

And now my lord's the lover 
Of ah ! so many a sweet, — 

Of roses, of spouses. 

As many as love may greet 



249 



THE LEAF. 
{Leopardi.) 

^ Torn from your parent bough, 
Poor leaf all withered now, 

Where go you ? ' 'I cannot tell. 
Storm-stricken is the oak-tree 

Where I grew, whence I fell. 
Changeful continually, 

The zeph5T and hurricane 
Since that day bid me flee 
From deepest woods to the lea. 

From highest hills to the plain. 
Where the wind carries me 

I go without fear or grief : 
I go whither each one goes, — 
Thither the leaf of the rose 

And thither the laurel-leaf.' 



2SO 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. 

{Dante,) 

****** 
When I made answer, I began : ' Alas ! 

How many sweet thoughts and how much desire 
Led these two onward to the dolorous pass ! ' 

Then turned to them, as who would fam inquire, 
And said : ' Francesca, these thine agonies 

Wring tears for pity and grief that they inspire : 
But tell me, — in the season of sweet sighs, 

When and what way did Love instruct you so 
That he in your vague longings made you wise ? ' 

Then she to me : ' There is no greater woe 
Than the remembrance brings of happy days 

In Misery; and this thy guide doth know. 
But if the first beginnings to retrace 

Of our sad love can yield thee solace here, 
So will I be as one that weeps and says. 

One day we read, for pastime and sweet cheer, 
Of Lancelot, how he found Love tyrannous : 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. 251 

We were alone and without any fear. 
Our eyes were drawn together, reading thus, 

Full oft, and still our cheeks would pale and glow ; 
But one sole point it was that conquered us. 

For when we read of that great lover, how 
He kissed the smile which he had longed to win, — 

Then he whom nought can sever from me now 
For ever, kissed my mouth, all quivering. 

A Galahalt was the book, and he that writ : 
Upon that day we read no more therein.' 

At the tale told, while one soul uttered it, 
The other wept : a pang so pitiable 

That I was seized, like death, in swooning-fit. 
And even as a dead body falls, I fell 



LYRICS. 



255 



LOVE-LILY. 

Between the hands, between the brows. 

Between the lips of Love-Lily, 
A spirit is born whose birth endows 

My blood with fire to burn through me ; 
Who breathes upon my gazing eyes, 

Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear. 
At whose least touch my color flies. 

And whom my life grows faint to hear. 

Within the voice, within the heart. 

Within the mind of Love-Lily, 
A spirit is born who lifts apart 

His tremulous wings and looks at me ; 
Who on my mouth his finger lays. 

And shows, while whispering lutes confer, 
That Eden of Love's watered ways 

Whose winds and spirits worship her. 



256 LYRICS. 

Brows, hands, and lips, iieart, mind, and voice. 

Kisses and words of Love-Lily, — 
Oh 1 bid me with your joy rejoice 

Till riotous longing rest in me I 
Ah I let not hope be still distraught, 

But find in her its gracious goal, 
Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought 

Nor Love her body trom her soul. 



LYRICS. 257 



FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED. 

Peace in her chamber, wheresoe'er 

It be, a holy place : 
The thought still brings my soul such grace 

As morning meadows wear. 

Whether it still be small and light, 

A maid's who dreams alone, 
As from her orchard-gate the moon 

Its ceiling showed at night : 

Or whether, in a shadow dense 

As nuptial hymns invoke, 
Innocent maidenhood awoke 

To married innocence : 

There still the thanks unheard await 
The unconscious gift bequeathed ; 

For there my soul this hour has breathed 
An air inviolate. 



258 LYRICS. 



PLIGHTED PROMISE. 

In a soft-complexioned sky, 
Fleeting rose and kindling gray, 

Have you seen Aurora fly 
At the break of day ? 

So my maiden, so my plighted may 
Blushing cheek and gleaming eye 
Lifts to look my way. 



Where the inmost leaf is stirred 
With the heart-beat of the grove, 

Have you heard a hidden bird 
Cast her note above ? 

So my lady, so my lovely love, 
Echoing Cupid's prompted word. 
Makes a tune thereof. 



LYRICS. 259 

Have you seen, at heaven's mid-height 
In the moon-rack's ebb and tide, 

Venus leap forth burning white, 
Dian pale and hide? 
So my bright breast-jewel, so my bride, 

One sweet night, when fear takes flight, 
Shall leap against my side. 



26o LYRICS. 



SUDDEN LIGHT. 

I HAVE been here before, 

But when or how I cannot tell : 

I know the grass beyond the door, 
The sweet keen smell. 
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. 

iTou have been mine before, — 

How long ago I may not know : 
But just when at that swallow's soar 
Your neck turned so. 
Some veil did fall, — I knew it all of yore. 

Has this been thus before ? 

And shall not thus time's eddying flight 
Still with our lives our loves restore 
In death's despite, 
And day and night yield one delight once more ? 



LYRICS. 261 



A LITTLE WHILE. 

A LITTLE while a little love 

The hour yet bears for thee and me 
Who have not drawn the veil to see 

If still our heaven be lit above. 

Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, 
Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone , 

And I have heard the night-wind cry 
And deemed its speech mine own. 

A little while a little love 

The scattering autumn hoards for us 
Whose bower is not yet ruinous 

Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. 

Only across the shaken boughs 

We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, 

And deep in both our hearts they rouse 
One»jsrail for thee and me. 



262 LYRICS. 

A littie while a little love 
May yet be ours who have not said 
The word it makes our eyes afraid 

To know that each is thinking of. 

Not yet the end : be our lips dumb 
In smiles a little season yet : 

ril tell thee, when the end is come, 
How we may best forget. 



LYRICS. 263 



THE SONG OF THE BOWER. 

8av, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, 

Thou whom I long for, who longest for me ? 
Oh ! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, 

Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free. 
Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber, 

Oh ! the last time, and the hundred before . 
Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember, 

Yet something that sighs from him passes the door. 

Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower, 

What does it find there that knows it again ? 
There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower, 

Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. 
Ah ! yet what shelter is still shed above it, — 

What waters still image its leaves torn apart? 
Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it, 

And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart 

What were my prize, could I enter thy bower, 
This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn? 



264 LYRICS. 

Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower, 
Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. 

Kindled with love-breath, (the sun*s kiss is colder !) 
Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day ; 

My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder, 
My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away. 

What is it keeps me afar from thy bower, — 

My spirit, my body, so fain to be there ? 
Waters engulfing or fires that devour? — 

Earth heaped against me or death in the air? 
Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity. 

The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell ; 
Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city, 

The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell 

Shall I not one day remember thy bower. 

One day when all days are one day to me? — 
Thinking, ' I stirred not, and yet had the power,' 

Yearning, ' Ah God, if again it might be ! ' 
Peace, peace ! such a small lamp illumes, on this high- 
way, 

So dimly so few steps in front of my feet, — 
Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way 

Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we 
meet? 



LYRICS. 265, 



PENUMBRA, 

I DID not look upon her eyes, 
(Though scarcely seen, with no surprise, 
'Mid many eyes a single look,) 
Because they should not gaze rebuke, 
At night, from stars in sky and brook. 

I did not take her by the hand, 

(Though little was to understand 

From touch of hand all friends might take,) 

Because it should not prove a flake 

Burnt in my palm to boil and ache. 

I did not listen to her voice, 
(Though none had noted, where at choice 
All might rejoice in listening,) 
Because no such a thing should cling 
In the wood's moan at evening. 



266 LYRICS, 

I did not cross her shadow once, 
(Though from the hollow west the sun's 
Last shadow runs along so far,) 
Because in June it should not bar 
My ways, at noon when fevers are. 

They told me she was sad that day. 
(Though wherefore tell what love's soothsay. 
Sooner than they, did register?) 
And my heart leapt and wept to her, 
And yet I did not speak nor stir. 

So shall the tongues of tlie sea's foam 
(Though many voices therewith come 
From drowned hope's home to cry to me,) 
Bewail one hour the more, when sea 
And wind are one with memory. 



LYRICS. 267 



THE WOODSPURGE. 

The wind flapped loose, the wind was still, 
Shaken out dead from tree and hill : 
I had walked on at the wind's will,— 
I sat now, for the wind was still. 

Between my knees my forehead was, — 
My lips, drawn in, said not Alas I 
My hair was over in the grass, 
My naked ears heard the day pass. 

My eyes, wide open, had the run 

Of some ten weeds to fix upon ; 

Among those few, out of the sun, 

The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one. 

From perfect grief there need not be 
Wisdom or even memory : 
One thing then learnt remains to me, — 
The woodspurge has a cup of three. 



268 LYRICS. 



THE HONEYSUCKLE. 

I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where 
The hedge on high is quick with thorn. 
And climbing for the prize, was torn, 

And fouled my feet in quag-water ; 
And by the thorns and by the wind 
The blossom that I took was thinn'd, 

And yet I found it sweet and fair. 

Thence to a richer growth I came, 
Where, nursed in mellow intercourse. 
The honeysuckles sprang by scores, 

Not harried like my single stem. 
All virgin lamps of scent and dew. 
So from my hand that first I threw, 

Yet plucked not any more of them. 



LYRICS. 269 



A YOUNG FIR-WOOD. 

These little firs to-day are things 

To clasp into a giant's cap, 

Ot fans to suit his lady's lap. 
From many winters many springs 

Shall cherish them in strength and sap, 

Till they be marked upon the map, 
A wood for the wind's wanderings. 

All seed is in the sower's hands : 

And what at first was trained to spread 
Its shelter for some single head, — 

Yea, even such fellowship of wands, — 
May hide the sunset, and the shade 
Of its great multitude be laid 

Upon the earth and elder sands. 



270 LYRICS. 



THE SEA-LIMITS. 

Consider the sea's listless chime : 
Time's self it is, made audible, — 
The murmur of the earth's own shell. 

Secret continuance sublime 

Is the sea's end : our sight may pass 
No furlong further. Since time was, 

This sound hath told the lapse of time. 

No quiet, which is death's, — it hath 
The mournfulness of ancient life, 
Enduring always at dull strife. 

As the world's heart of rest and wrath. 
Its painful pulse is in the sands. 
Last utterly, the whole sky stands, 

Gray and not known, along its path. 

Listen alone beside the sea, 

Listen alone among the woods ; 



LYRICS. 271 

Those voices of twin solitudes 

Shall have one sound alike to thee : 

Hark w^here the murmurs of thronged men 
Surge and sink back and surge again, — 

Still the one voice of wave and tree. 

Gather a shell from the strown beach 

And listen at its lips : they sigh 

The same desire and mystery, 
The echo of the whole sea's speech. 

And all mankind is thus at hear^" 

Not anything but what thou art : 
And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. 



SONNETS FOR PICTURES, 



AND OTHER SONNETS. 



BONNETS FOR PICTURES, 275 



FOR 

•OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS/ 
By Leonardo da Vinci. 

Mother, is this the darkness of the end, 
The Shadow of Death ? and is that outer sea 
Infinite imminent Eternity ? 

And does the death-pang by man's seed sustain'd 

In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend 
Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he 
Blesses the dead with his hand silently 

To his long day which hours no more offend? 

Mother of grace, the pass is difficult, 

Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls 

Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering thro Jgb. 
Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols, 
Whose peace abides in the dark avenue 
Amid the bitterness of things occult. 



276 SONNETS FOR PICTURES. 



FOR 

A VENETIAN PASTORAL. 

By Giorgionk. 

(7« the Louvre,) 

Water, for anguish of the solstice : — nay, 
But dip the vessel slowly, — nay, but lean 
And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in 

Reluctant. Hush ! Beyond all depth away 

The heat lies silent at the brink of day : 
Now the hand trails upon the viol-string 
That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, 

Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray 

Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep 
And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass 
Is cool against her naked side ? Let be : — 

Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, 
Nor name this ever. Be it as it was, -* 
Life touching lips with Immortality. 



SONNETS FOR PICTURES. 277 



FOR 

\N ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN, 

By Andrea Mantegna. 

(/« the Louvre.) 

Scarcely, I think ; yet it indeed may be 

The meaning reached him, when this music rang 
Clear through his frame, a sweet possessive pang, 

And he beheld these rocks and that ridged sea. 

But I believe that, leaning tow'rds them, he 
Just felt their hair carried across his face 
As each girl passed him ; nor gave ear to trace 

How many feet ; nor bent assuredly 

His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought 
To know the dancers. It is bitter glad 
Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it, 
A secret of the wells of Life : to wit : — 
The heart's each pulse shall keep the sense i had 

With all, though the mind's labor run to nought. 



278 SONNETS FOR PICTURES. 

FOR 

'RUGGIERO AND ANGELICA/ 

By Ingres. 

(Two Sonnets.) 

I. 

A REMOTE sky, prolonged to the sea's brim : 
One rock-point standing buffeted alone, 
Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, 

Hell-birth of geomaunt and teraphim : 

A knight, and a winged creature bearing him, 
Reared at the rock : a woman fettered there, 
Leaning into the hollow with loose hair 

And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. 

The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt : 
Under his lord the griffin-horse ramps blind 

With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem 
Thrills in the roaring of those iaws : behind, 
That evil length of body chafes at fault. 

She doth aot hear nor see — she knows of thera. 



SONNETS FOR PICTURES. 279 



II. 

Clench thine eyes now, — 'tis the last instant, girl : 
Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take 
One breath for all : thy life is keen awake, — 

Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl 

Of its foam drenched thee ? — or the waves that curl 
And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache? 
Or was it his the champion's blood to flake 

Thy flesh ? — or thine own blood's anointing, girl ? 

Now, silence : for the sea's is such a sound 
As irks not silence ; and except the sea. 

All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease 
To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her : and she, 
Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, 
Again a woman in her nakedness. 



2So SONNETS FOR PICTURES. 



FOR 

"THE WINE OF CIRCE" 

BY EDWARD BURNE JONES. 

Dusk-haired and gold-robed o*er the golden wine 
She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame, 
Sink the black drops ; while, lit with fragrant flame, 

Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine. 

Doth Helios here with Hecate combine 
(O Circe, thou their votaress !) to proclaim 
For these thy guests all rapture in Love's name, 

Till pitiless Night give Day the countersign? 

Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee 
Those cowering beasts, tneir equals heretofore, 

Wait ; who with them in new equality 
To-night shall echo back the sea's dull roar 
With a vain wail from passion's tide-strown shore 

Where the dishevelled seaweed hates the sea. 



SONNETS AND PICTURES. 281 



MARY'S GIRLHOOD. 
{For a Picture.^ 



This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect 

God's Vir2:in. Gone is a great while, and she 
Dwelt youno^ in Nazareth of Galilee. 

Unto God's will she brought devout respect, 

Profound simplicity of intellect, 

And supreme patience. From her mother's knee 
Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity; 

Strong in grave peace ; in pity circumspect. 

So held she through her girlhood ; as it were 
An angel-watered lily, that near God 

Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home 
She woke in her white bed, and had no fear 
At all, — yet wept till sunshine, and felt awed : 
Because the fulness of the time was come. 



IT. 

These are the symbols. On that cloth of red 
r the centre is the Tripoint: perfect each, 
Except the second of its points, to teach 

That Christ is not yet born. The books — whose head 

Is golden Charity, as Paul hath said — 

Those virtues are wherein the soul is rich : 
Therefore on them the lily standeth, which 

Is Innocence, being interpreted. 

The seven-thorn'd brier and the palm seven-leaved 
Are her great sorrow and her great reward. 
Until the end be full, the Holy One 
Abides without. She soon shall have achieved 
Her perfect purity : yea, God the Lord 

Shall soon vouchsafe His Son to be her Son, 



282 SONNETS FOR PICTURES. 

THE PASSOVER IN THE HOLY FAMILY 
{JFor a Drawing,*^ 

Here meet together the prefiguring day 

And day prefigured. ' Eating, thou shalt stand, 
Feet shod, loins girt, thy road-staflf in thine hand, 

With blood-stained door and lintel,' — did God say 

By Moses' moutli in ages passed away. 

And now, where this poor household doth comprise 
At Paschal-Feast two kindred families, — 

Lo ! the slain lamb confronts the Lamb to slay. 

The pyre is piled. What agony's crown attained. 
What shadow of Death the Boy's fair brow subdues 

Who holds that blood wherewith the porch is stained 
By Zachary the priest? John binds the shoes 
He deemed himself not worthy to unloose ; 

And Mary culls the bitter herbs ordained. 

* The scene is in the house-porch, where Christ holds a 
bowl of blood from which Zacharias is sprinkling the posts 
and lintel. Joseph has brought the lamb and Elisabeth lights 
the pjre. The shoes which John fastens and the bitter herbs 
which Mary is gathering form part of the ritual. 



SONNETS FOR PICTURT^^ 2^3 

MARY MAGDALENE. 

AT THE DOOR OF SIMON THE PHARISEE. 

(For a Drawing.*) 

Nyly wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair? 

Nay, be tliou all a rose, — wreath, lips, and cheek. 

Nay, not this house, — that banquet-house we seek ; 
See how they kiss and enter ; come thou there. 
This delicate day of love we two will share 

Till at our ear love's whispering night shall speak 

What, sweet one, — hold'st thou still the foolish 
freak ? 
Nay, when I kiss thy feet they'll leave the stair.' 

* Oh loose me ! See'st thou not my Bridegroom's face 
That draws me to Him ? For His feet my kiss, 
My hair, my tears He craves to-day ; — and oh I 
What words can tell what other day and place 

Shall see me clasp those blood-stained feet of Hisf 
He needs me, calls me, loves me : let me go ! ' 

* In the drawing Mary has left a festal procession, and is 
ascending by a sudden impulse the steps of the house where 
she sees Christ. Her lover has followed her and is trying tc 
turn her back. 



zS4 SONNETS FOR PICTURES 



LILITH. 
{I^or a Picture,) 

Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told 

(The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,) 

That, ere the snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive, 

And her enchanted hair was the first gold. 

And still she sits, young while the earth is old, 
And, subtly of herself contemplative, 
Draws men to watch the bright net she can weave, 

Till heart and body and life are in its hold. 

The rose and poppy are her flowers ; for where 
Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent 

And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare ? 
Lo ! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went 
Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck 
bent, 

And round his heart one strangling golden hair. 



SONNETS FOR PICTURES. 285 



VENUS VERTICORDIA. 
{F'or a Picture,) 

She hath the apple in her hand for thee, 
Yet almost in her heart would hold it back ; 
She muses, with her eyes upon the track 

Of that which in thy spirit they can see. 

Haply, * Behold, he is at peace,* saith she ; 
' Alas ! the apple for his lips, — the dart 
That follows its brief sweetness to his heart, — 

The wandering of his feet perpetually 1 ' 

A little space her glance is still and coy , 

But if she give the fruit that works her spell, 

Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy. 

Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe fore 

tell, 

And her far seas moan as a single shell, 
And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy. 



3^6 SONNETS FOR PICTURES. 



CASSANDRA. 
{I^or a Drawing,*) 

I. 

Rend, rend thine hair, Cassandra : he will go. 
Yea, rend thy garments, wring thine hands, and cry 
From Troy still towered to the n reddened sky. 

See, all but she that bore thee mock thy woe : — 

He most whom that fair woman arms, with show 
Of wrath on her bent brows ; for in this place 
This hour thou bad'st all men in Helen's face 

The ravished ravishing prize of Death to know. 

What eyes, what ears hath sweet Andromache, 
Save for her Hector's form and step ; as tear 
On tear make salt the warm last kiss he gave? 
He goes. Cassandra's words beat heavily 
Like crows above his crest, and at his ear 
Ring hollow in the shield that shall not save. 

* The subject shows Cassandra prophesying among her 
kindred, as Hector leaves them for his last battle. They are 
on the platform of a fortress, from which the Trojan troops 
are marching out. Helen is arming Paris; Priam soothes 
Hecuba; and Andromache holds the child to her bosom. 



SONNETS FOR PICTURES, 287 



II. 

* O Hector, gone, gone, gone ! O Hector, thee 

Two chariots wait, in Troy long bless'd and curs'd ; 

And Grecian spear and Phrygian sand athirst 
Crave from thy veins the blood of victory. 
Lo I long upon our hearth the brand had we, 

Lit for the roof-tree*s ruin : and to-day 

The ground-stone quits the wall, — the wind hath 
way,— . 
And higher and higher the wings of fire are free. 

O Paris, Paris ! O thou burning brand, 

Thou beacon of the sea whence Venus rose, 

Lighting thy race to shipwreck ! Even that hand 
Wherewith she took thine apple let her close 
Within thy curls at last, and while Troy glows 

Lift thee her trophy to the sea and land/ 



288 SONNETS FOP PICTURES. 



PANDORA. 
{JFor a Picture,) 

What of the end, Pandora ? Was it thme, 
The deed that set these fiery pinions free ? 
Ah ! wherefore did the Olympian consistory 

In its own likeness make thee half divine ? 

Was it that Juno's brow might stand a sign 
For ever? and the mien of Pallas be 
A deadly thing ? and that all men might see 

In Venus' eyes the gaze of Proserpine? 

What of the end ? These beat their wings at will, 
The ill-born things, the good things turned to ill, — 

Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited. 
Aye, clench the casket now ! Whither they go 
Thou mayst not dare to think : nor canst thou know 

If Hope still pent there be alive or dead. 



SONNETS. 289 



ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NATIONS 

Not that the earth is changing, O my God I 
Nor that the seasons totter in their walk,— 
Not that the virulent ill of act and talk 

Seethes ever as a winepress ever trod, — 

Not therefore are we certain that the rod 

Weighs in thine hand to smite thy world ; though no\if 
Beneath thine hand so many nations bow, 

So many kings ; — not therefore, O my God I — 

But because Man is parcelled out in men 
To-day ; because, for any wrongful blow, 
No man not stricken asks, * I would be told 
Why thou dost thus ; ' but his heart whispers then, 
* He is he, I am L' By this we know 
That the earth falls asunder, being old. 



290 



SO^^NETS. 



ON THE 'VITA NUOVA' OF DANTE. 

As he that loves oft looks on the dear form 
And guesses how it grew to womanhood, 
And gladly would have watched the beauties bud 

And the mild fire of precious life wax warm : — 

So I, long bound within the threefold charm 
Of Dante's love sublimed to heavenly mood, 
Had marvelled, touching his Beatitude, 

How grew such presence from man's shameful swarm 



At length within this book I found portrayed 
Newborn that Paradisal Love of his. 

And simple like a child ; with whose clear aid 
I understood. To such a child as this, 

Christ, charging well his chosen ones, forbade 
Offence : * for lo I of such my kingdom is.* 



SONNETS, 29\ 



DANTIS TENEBIL^. 
(/» Memory of my Father^ 

And did'st thou know indeed, when at the font 
Together with thy name thou gav'st me his, 
That also on thy son must Beatrice 

Decline her eyes according to her wont, 

Accepting me to be of those that haunt 
The vale of magical dark mysteries 
Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies 

And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt 

Trembles in music ? This is that steep land 
Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze 
Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new height 

Seem piled to climb. These things I understand : 

For here, where day still soothes my lifted face, 

On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night. 



292 



SONNETS, 



BEAUTY AND THE BIRD. 

She fluted with her mouth as when one sips, 
And gently waved her golden head, inclined 
Outside his cage close to the window-blind ; 

Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips, 

Piped low to her of sweet companionships. 

And when he made an end, some seed took she 
And fed him from her tongue, which rosily 

Peeped as a piercing bud between her lips. 



And like the child in Chaucer, on whose tongue 
The Blessed Mary laid, when he was dead, 

A grain, — who straightway praised her name in song j 
Even so, when she, a little lightly red, 

Now turned on me and laughed, I heard the throng 
Of inner voices praise her golden head. 



SONNETS. 293 



A MATCH WITH THE MOON. 

Weary already, weary miles to-night 

I walked for bed : and so, to get some ease, 
1 dogged the flying moon with similes. 
And like a wisp she doubled on my sight 
In ponds ; and caught in tree-tops like a kite ; 
And in a globe of film all vaporish 
Swam full-faced like a silly silver fish ; — 
Last like a bubble shot the welkin's height 
Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent 
My wizened shadow craning round at me, 
And jeered, ' So, step the measure, — one two 
three!' — 
And if I faced on her, looked innocent. 
But just at parting, halfway down a dell, 
She k'ssed me for good-night. So you'll not tell. 



BALLADS AND SONNETS. 



ROSE MARY. 

Of her two fights with the Beryl-stone : 
Lost the first y but the second won* 

PART I. 

*• Mary mine that art Mary's Rose, 

Come in to me from the garden-close. 

The sun sinks fast with the rising dew, 

And we marked not how the faint moon grew ; 

But the hidden stars are calling you. 

" Tall Rose Mary, come to my side, 
And read the stars if you 'd be a bride. 
In hours whose need was not your own, 
While you were a young maid yet ungrown, 
You Ve read the stars in the Beryl-stone. 

" Daughter, once more I bid you read ', 
But now let it be for your own need : 
Because to-morrow, at break of day. 
To Holy Cross he rides on his way. 
Your knight Sir James of Heronhaye. 



ROSE MARY. 

" Ere he wed you, flower of mine, 
For a heavy shrift he seeks the shrine. 
Now hark to my words and do not fear ; 
111 news next I have for your ear ; 
But be you strong, and our help is here. 

" On his road, as the rumor 's rife, 
An ambush waits to take his life. 
He needs will go, and will go alone ; 
Where the peril lurks may not be known ; 
But in this glass all things are shown." 

Pale Rose Mary sank to the floor : — 
" The night will come if the day is o'er ! " 
" Nay, heaven takes counsel, star with star, 
And help shall reach your heart from afar : 
A bride you '11 be, as a maid you axe." 

The lady unbound her jewelled zone 
And drew from her robe the Beryl-stone. 
Shaped it was to a shadowy sphere, — 
World of our world, the sun's compeer, 
That bears and buries the toiling year. 



ROSE MARV, 

With shuddering light 't was stirred and strewi) 
Like the cloud-nest of the wading moon : 
Freaked it was as the bubble's ball, 
Rainbow-hued through a misty pall 
Like the middle light of the waterfall. 

Shadows dwelt in its teeming girth 
Of the known and unknown things of earth ; 
The cloud above and the wave around, — 
The central fire at the sphere's heart bound. 
Like doomsday prisoned underground. 

A thousand years it lay in the sea 
With a treasure wrecked from ThesSaly ; 
Deep it lay 'mid the coiled sea-wrack, 
But the ocean-spirits found the track : 
A soul was lost to win it back. 

The lady upheld the wondrous thing : — 
" 111 fare " (she said) "with a fiend's-fairing : 
But Moslem blood poured forth like wine 
Can hallow Hell, 'neath the Sacred Sign ; 
And my lord brought this from Palestine. 



ROSE MARY. 

*' Spirits who fear the Blessed Rood 
Drove forth the accursed multitude 
That heathen worship housed herein, — 
Never again such home to win, 
Save only by a Christian's sin. 

" All last night at an altar fair 

I burnt strange fires and strove with prayer ; 

Till the flame paled to the red sunrise, 

All rites I then did solemnize ; 

And the spell lacks nothing but your eyes." 

Low spake maiden Rose Mary : — 
" O mother mine, if I should not see ! " 
" Nay, daughter, cover your face no more, 
But bend love's heart to the hidden lore. 
And you shall see now as heretofore." 

Paler yet were the pale cheeks grown 
As the gray eyes sought the Beryl-stone : 
Then over her mother's lap leaned she. 
And stretched her thrilled throat passionately, 
And sighed from her soul, and said, " I see." 



ROSE MARY, 

Even as she spoke, they two were 'ware 
Of music-notes that fell through the air ; 
A chiming shower of strange device, 
Drop echoing drop, once twice and thrice, 
As rain may fall in Paradise. 

An instant come, in an instant gone, 

No time there was to think thereon. 

The mother held the sphere on her knee : — 

" Lean this way and speak low to me, 

And take no note but of what you see." 

" I see a man with a besom gray 

That sweeps the flying dust away." 

" Ay, that comes first in the mystic sphere ; 

But now that the way is swept and clear, 

Heed well what next you look on there." 

" Stretched aloft and adown I see 
Two roads that part in waste- country : 
The glen lies deep and the ridge stands tall ; 
What 's great below is above seen small, 
And the hill-side is the valley- wall." 



ROSE MARY. 

" Stream-bank, daughter, or moor and moss, 
Both roads will take to Holy Cross. 
The hills are a weary waste to wage ; 
But what of the valley-road's presage ? 
That way must tend his pilgrimage." 

" As 't were the turning leaves of a book, 
The road runs past me as I look ; 
Or it is even as though mine eye 
Should watch calm waters filled with sky 
While lights and clouds and wings went by." 

" In every covert seek a spear ; 
They '11 scarce lie close till he draws near." 
"The stream has spread to a river now ; 
The stiff blue sedge is deep in the slough, 
But the banks are bare of shrub or bough." 

" Is there any roof that near at hand 
Might shelter yield to a hidden band?" 
" On the further bank I see but one. 
And a herdsman now in the sinking sun 
Unyokes his team at the threshold-stone." 



ROSE MARY. 

" Keep heedful watch by the water^s edge, — 
Some boat might lurk 'neath the shadowed sedge." 
" One slid but now 'twixt the winding shores, 
But a peasant woman bent to the oars 
And only a young child steered its course. 

" Mother, something flashed to my sight ! — 
Nay, it is but the lapwing's flight. — 
What glints there like a lance that flees ? — 
Nay, the flags are stirred in the breeze. 
And the water 's bright through the dart-rushes. 

" Ah ! vainly I search from side to side : — 
Woe 's me ! and where do the foemen hide ? 
Woe 's me ! and perchance I pass them by. 
And under the new dawn's blood-red sky 
Even where I gaze the dead shall lie." 

Said the mother : " For dear love's sake. 
Speak more low, lest the spell should break." 
Said the daughter : " By love's control, 
My eyes, my words, are strained to the goal ; 
But oh ! the voice that cries in my soul ! " 



10 I^OSE MARY. 

"Hush, sweet, hush ! be calm and behold." 
" I see two floodgates broken and old : 
The grasses wave o'er the ruined weir, 
But the bridge still leads to the breakwater j 
And — mother, mother, O mother dear ! " 

The damsel clung to her mother's knee, 
And dared not let the shriek go free ; 
Low she crouched by the lady's chair, 
And shrank blindfold in her fallen hair, 
And whispering said, " The spears are there ! " 

The lady stooped aghast from her place. 
And cleared the locks from her daughter's face. 
" More 's to see, and she swoons, alas ! 
Look, look again, ere the moment pass 1 
One shadow comes but once to the glass. 

" See you there what you saw but now ? " 
" I see eight men 'neath the willow-bough. 
All over the weir a wild growth 's spread : 
Ah me ! it will hide a living head 
As well as the water hides the dead. 



ROSE MARY. II 

" They lie by the broken water-gate 

As men who have a while to wait. 

The chiefs high lance has a blazoned scroll, — 

He seems some lord of tithe and toll 

With seven squires to his bannerole. 

" The little pennon quakes in the air, 
I cannot trace the blazon there : — 
Ah ! now I can see the field of blue, 
The spurs and the merlins two and two ; — 
It is the Warden of Holycleugh ! " 

" God be thanked for the thing we know ! 
You have named your good knight's mortal foe. 
Last Shrovetide in the tourney-game 
He sought his life by treasonous shame ; 
And this way now doth he seek the same. 

*' So, fair lord, such a thing you are ! 
But we too watch till the morning star. 
Well, June is kind and the moon is clear : 
Saint Judas send you a merry cheer 
For the night you lie at Warisweir ! 



12 ROSE MARY, 

" Now, sweet daughter, but one more sight, 
And you may lie soft and sleep to-night. 
We know in the vale what perils be : 
Now look once more in the glass, and see 
If over the hills the road lies free." 

Rose Mary pressed to her mother's cheek, 
And almost smiled but did not speak j 
Then turned again to the saving spell. 
With eyes to search and with lips to tell 
The heart of things invisible. 

" Again the shape with the besom gray 
Comes back to sweep the clouds away. 
Again I stand where the roads divide ; 
But now all 's near on the steep hillside. 
And a thread far down is the rivertide." 

"Ay, child, your road is o'er moor and moss. 

Past Holycleugh to Holy Cross. 

Our hunters lurk in the valley's wake. 

As they knew which way the chase would take 

Yet search the hills for your true love's sake." 



ROSE MARY, 13 

" Swift and swifter the waste runs by, 
And nought I see but the heath and the sky ; 
No brake is there that could hide a spear, 
And the gaps to a horseman's sight He clear ; 
Still past it goes, and there 's nought to fear*" 

" Fear no trap that you cannot see, — 

They 'd not lurk yet too warily. 

Below by the weir they lie in sight. 

And take no heed how they pass the night 

Till close they crouch with the morning light." 

" The road shifts ever and brings in view 
Now first the heights of Holycleugh : 
Dark they stand o'er the vale below, 
And hide that heaven which yet shall show 
The thing their master's heart doth know. 

" Where the road looks to the castle steep. 
There are seven hill-clefts wide and deep : 
Six mine eyes can search as they list, 
But the seventh hollow is brimmed with mist ; 
If aught were there, it might not be wist." 



14 ROSE MARY. 

" Small hope, my girl, for a helm to hide 
In mists that cling to a wild moorside : 
Soon they melt with the wind and sun. 
And scarce would wait such deeds to be done 
God send their snares be the worst to shun.*' 

" Still the road winds ever anew 
As it hastens on towards Holycleugh ; 
And ever the great walls loom more near, 
Till the castle-shadow, steep and sheer. 
Drifts like a cloud, and the sky is clear." 

" Enough, my daughter," the mother said, 
And took to her breast the bending head ; 
" Rest, poor head, with my heart below. 
While love still lulls you as long ago : 
For all is learnt that we need to know. 

" Long the miles and many the hours 
From the castle-height to the abbey-towers ; 
But here the journey has no more dread ; 
Too thick with life is the whole road spread 
For murder's trembling foot to tread." 



ROSE MARY. 15 

She gazed on the Beryl-stone full fain 
Ere she wrapped it close in her robe again : 
The flickering shades were dusk and dun, 
And the lights throbbed faint in unison, 
Like a high heart when a race is run. 

As the globe shd to its silken gloom, 
Once more a music rained through the room ; 
Low it splashed like a sweet star-spray, 
And sobbed like tears at the heart of May, 
And died as laughter dies away. 

The lady held her breath for a space. 
And then she looked in her daughter's face : 
But wan Rose Mary had never heard ; 
Deep asleep like a sheltered bird 
She lay with the long speU minister'd. 

*' Ah ! and yet I must leave you, dear. 

For what you have seen your knight must hear. 

Within four days, by the help of God, 

He comes back safe to his heart's abode : 

Be sure he shall shun the valley-road." 



l6 ROSE MARY, 

Rose Mary sank with a broken moan, 
And lay in the chair and slept alone, 
Weary, lifeless, heavy as lead : 
Long it was ere she raised her head 
And rose up all discomforted. 

She searched her brain for a vanished thing. 
And clasped her brows, remembering ; 
Then knelt and lifted her eyes in awe, 
And sighed with a long sigh sweet to draw : — 
" Thank God, thank God, thank God I saw ! " 

The lady had left her as she lay. 
To seek the Knight of Heronhaye. 
But first she clomb by a secret stair, 
And knelt at a carven altar fair. 
And laid the precious Beryl there. 

Its girth was graved with a mystic rune 

In a tongue long dead 'neath sun and moon : 

A priest of the Holy Sepulchre 

Read that writing and did not err ; 

And her lord had told its sense to her. 



ROSE MARY. 1 7 

She breathed the words in an undertone : — 

" JVone sees here but the pure alone y 

" And oh ! " she said, " what rose may be 

In Mary's bower more pure to see ^. 

Than my own sweet maiden Rose Mary ? " -'' 



BERYL-SONG. 



We whose home is the Beryl, 
Fire-spirits of dread desire, 
Who entered in 
By a secret sin, 
* Gainst whom all powers that strive with ours are sterile, ■ 
We cry, Woe to thee, mother 1 
What hast thou taught her, the girl thy daughter, 
That she and none other 
Should this dark morrow to her deadly sorrow imperil? 
What were her eyes 
But the fiend's own spies, 
O mother. 
And shall We not fee her, our proper prophet and seer ? 



1 8 ROSE MARY. 

Go to her, mother, 

Even thou, yea thou and none other. 
Thou, from the Beryl : 

Her fee must thou take her. 

Her fee that We send, and make her. 
Even in this hour, her sin^s unsheltered avower. 

Whose steed did neigh, 
Riderless, bridle-less, 

At her gate before it was day ? 

Lo / where doth hover 

The soul of her lover ? 
She sealed his doom, she, she was the sworn approver, -— 

Whose eyes were so wondrous wise, 

Yet blind, ah ! blind to his peril / 

For stole not We in 

Through a love-linked sin, 
^Gainst whom all powers at war with ours are sterile^ — 

Fire-spirits of dread desire. 

We whose home is the Beryl? 



ROSE MARY, 19 



PART II. 

" Pale Rose Mary, what shall be done 

With a rose that Mary weeps upon ? " 

*' Mother, let it fall from the tree, 

And never walk where the strewn leaves be 

Till winds have passed and the path is free." 

" Sad Rose Mary, what shall be done 
With a cankered flower beneath the sun ? " 
" Mother, let it wait for the night ; 
Be sure its shame shall be out of sight 
Ere the moon pale or the east grow light." 

" Lost Rose Mary, what shall be done 
With a heart that is but a broken one ? " 
" Mother, let it He where it must ; 
The blood was drained with the bitter thrust, 
And dust is all that sinks in the dust." 



20 ROSE MARY, 

" Poor Rose Mary, what shall I do, -^ 
I, your mother, that lov^d you? " 
" O my mother, and is love gone ? 
Then seek you another love anon : 
Who cares what shame shall lean upon? " 

Low drooped trembling Rose Mary, 
Then up as though in a dream stood she. 
*' Come, my heart, it is time to go ; 
This is the hour that has whispered low 
When thy pulse quailed in the nights we know. 

" Yet O my heart, thy shame has a mate 
Who will not leave thee desolate. 
Shame for shame, yea and sin for sin : 
Yet peace at length may our poor souls win 
If love for love be found therein. 

" O thou who seek'st our shrift to-day," 
She cried, " O James of Heronhaye — 
Thy sin and mine was for love alone ; 
And oh ! in the sight of God 't is known 
How the heart has since made heavy moan. 



ROSE MARV. 21 

" Three days yet ! " she said to her heart ; 
" But then he comes, and we will not part. 
God, God be thanked that I still could see ! 
Oh ! he shall come back assuredly, 
But where, alas ! must he seek for me ? 

" O my heart, what road shall we roam 
Till my wedding-music fetch me home ? 
For love 's shut from us and bides afar, 
And scorn leans over the bitter bar 
And knows us now for the thing we are." 

Tall she stood with a cheek flushed high 
And a gaze to burn the heart-strings by. 
'T was the lightning-flash o'er sky and plain 
Ere laboring thunders heave the chain 
From the floodgates of the drowning rain. 

The mother looked on the daughter still 
As on a hurt thing that 's yet to kill 
Then wildly at length the pent tears came ; 
The love swelled high with the swollen shame, 
And their hearts' tempest burst on them. 



22 ROSE MARY. 

Closely locked, they clung without speech, 
And the mirrored souls shook each to each. 
As the cloud-moon and the water-moon 
Shake face to face when the dim stars swoon 
In stormy bowers of the night's mid-noon. 

They swayed together, shuddering sore. 
Till the mother's heart could bear no more. 
'Twas death to feel her ovm breast shake 
Even to the very throb and ache 
Of the burdened heart she still must break. 

All her sobs ceased suddenly. 

And she sat straight up but scarce could see. 

" O daughter, where should my speech begin ? 

Your heart held fast its secret sin : 

How think you, child, that I read therein ? '* 

" Ah me ! but I thought not how it came 

When your words showed that you knew my shame 

And now that you call me still your own, 

I half forget you have ever known. 

Did you read my heart in the Beryl-stone?" 



ROSE MARV. 23 

The lady answered her mournfully : — 
" The Beryl-stone has no voice for me : 
But when you charged its power to show 
The truth which none but the pure may know, 
Did naught speak once of a coming woe? " 

Her hand was close to her daughter's heart, 
And it felt the life-blood's sudden start : 
A quick deep breath did the damsel draw, 
Like the struck fawn in the oakenshaw : 
" O mother," she cried, " but still I saw ! " 

" O child, my child, why held you apart 
From my great love your hidden heart ? 
Said I not that all sin must chase 
From the spell's sphere the spirits of grace, 
And yield their rule to the evil race ? 

'' Ah ! would to God I had clearly told 
How strong those powers, accurst of old : 
Their heart is the ruined house of lies ; 
O girl, they can seal the sinful eyes, 
Or show the truth by contraries ! " 



24 ROSE MARY. 

The daughter sat as cold as a stone, 

And spoke no word but gazed alone, 

Nor moved, though her mother strove a space 

To clasp her round in a close embrace, 

Because she dared not see her face. 

" Oh ! " at last did the mother cry, 
" Be sure, as he loved you, so will I ! 
Ah ! still and dumb is the bride, I trow ; 
But cold and stark as the winter snow 
Is the bridegroom's heart, laid dead below ! 

" Daughter, daughter, remember you 
That cloud in the hills by Holycleugh? 
'Twas a Hell-screen hiding truth away : 
There, not i' the vale, the ambush lay. 
And thence was the dead borne home to-day.'* 

Deep the flood and heavy the shock 
When sea meets sea in the riven rock : 
But calm is the pulse that shakes the sea 
To the prisoned tide of doom set free 
In the breaking heart of Rose Mary. 



ROSE MARY. 2$ 

Once she sprang as the heifer springs 

With the wolfs teeth at its red heart-strings : 

First 't was fire in her breast and brain, 

And then scarce hers but the whole world's pain, 

As she gave one shriek and sank again. 

In the hair dark-waved the face lay white 

As the moon lies in the lap of night ; 

And as night through which no moon may dart 

Lies on a pool in the woods apart, 

So lay the swoon on the weary heart. 

The lady felt for the bosom's stir. 
And wildly kissed and called on her j 
Then turned away with a quick footfall, 
And slid the secret door in the wall. 
And clomb the strait stair's interval. 

There above in the altar-cell 
A little fountain rose and fell : 
She set a flask to the water's flow. 
And, backward hurrying, sprinkled now 
The still cold breast and the pallid brow. 



26 



ROSE MARY. 



Scarce cheek that warmed or breath on the air, 
Yet something told that hfe was there. 
" Ah ! not with the heart the body dies ! " 
The lady moaned in a bitter wise ; 
Then wrung her hands and hid her eyes. 

" Alas ! and how may I meet again 

In the same poor eyes the self-same pain? 

What help can I seek, such grief to guide ? 

Ah ! one alone might avail," she cried, — 

" The priest who prays at the dead man's side." 

The lady arose, and sped down all 
The winding stairs to the castle-hall. 
Long-known valley and wood and stream. 
As the loopholes passed, naught else did seem 
Than the torn threads of a broken dream. 



The hall was full of the castle-folk ; 
The women wept, but the men scarce spoke. 
As the lady crossed the rush-strewn floor, 
The throng fell backward, murmuring sore. 
And pressed outside round the open door. 



ROSE MARY, 27 

A stranger shadow hung on the hall 
Than the dark pomp of a funeral. 
'Mid common sights that were there alway, 
As 't were a chance of the passing day, 
On the ingle-bench the dead man lay. 

A priest who passed by Holycleugh 

The tidings brought when the day was new. 

He guided them who had fetched the dead ; 

And since that hour, unwearied. 

He knelt in prayer at the low bier's head. 

Word had gone to his own domain 

That in evil wise the knight was slain : 

Soon the spears must gather apace 

And the hunt be hard on the hunters' trace ; 

But all things yet lay still for a space. 

As the lady's hurried step drew near, 
The kneeling priest looked up to her. 
" Father, death is a grievous thing ; 
But oh ! the woe has a sharper sting 
That craves by me your ministering. 



28 ROSE MARY. 

" Alas for the child that should have wed 
This noble knight here lying dead ! 
Dead in hope, with all blessed boon 
Of love thus rent from her heart ere noon, 
I left her laid in a heavy swoon. 

" O haste to the open bower-chamber 
That 's topmost as you mount the stair : 
Seek her, father, ere yet she wake ; 
Your words, not mine, be the first to slake 
This poor heart's fire, for Christ's sweet sake ! 

"God speed !" she said as the priest passed through^ 

"And I ere long will be with you." 

Then low on the hearth her knees sank prone ; 

She signed all folk from the threshold-stone, 

And gazed in the dead man's face alone. 

The fight for Hfe found record yet 
In the clenched lips and the teeth hard-set ; 
The wrath from the bent brow was not gone, 
And stark in the eyes the hate still shone 
Of that they last had looked upon. 



fi 



1 
KOSE MARY. 29 

The blazoned coat was rent on his breast 
Where the golden field was goodliest ; 
But the shivered sword, close-gripped, could tell 
That the blood shed round him where he fell 
Was not all his in the distant dell. 

The lady recked of the corpse no whit. 
But saw the soul and spoke to it : 
A light there was in her steadfast eyes, — 
The fire of mortal tears and sighs 
That pity and love immortalize. 

" By thy death have I learnt to-day 

Thy deed, O James of Heronhaye ! 

Great wrong thou hast done to me and mine ) 

And haply God hath wrought for a sign 

By our blind deed this doom of thine. 

*' Thy shrift, alas ! thou wast not to win ; 
But may death shrive thy soul herein ! 
Full well do I know thy love should be 
Even yet — had life but stayed with thee — 
Our honor's strong security." 



30 



ROSE MARV. 



She stooped, and said with a sob's low stir, — 
" Peace be thine, — but what peace for her? " 
But ere to the brow her lips were press 'd. 
She marked, half-hid in the riven vest, 
A packet close to the dead man's breast. 

'Neath surcoat pierced and broken mail 
It lay on the blood-stained bosom pale. 
The clot clung round it, dull and dense, 
And a faintness seized her mortal sense 
As she reached her hand and drew it thence. 

'Twas steeped in the heart's flood welling high 
From the heart it there had rested by : 
Twas glued to a broidered fragment gay, — 
A shred by spear-thrust rent away 
From the heron-wings of Heronhaye. 



She gazed on the thing with piteous eyne : — 
" Alas, poor child, some pledge of thine ! 
Ah me ! in this troth the hearts were twain, 
And one hath ebbed to this crimson stain, 
And when shall the other throb again ? " 



ROSE MARY. 3 1 

She opened the packet heedfuUy ; 
The blood was stiff, and it scarce might be. 
She found but a folded paper there, 
And round it, twined with tenderest care, 
A long bright tress of golden hair. 

Even as she looked, she saw again 
That dark-haired face in its swoon of pain : 
It seemed a snake with a golden sheath 
Crept near, as a slow flame flickereth, 
And stung her daughter's heart to death. 

She loosed the tress, but her hand did shake 

As though indeed she had touched a snake ; 

And next she undid the paper's fold, 

But that too trembled in her hold. 

And the sense scarce grasped the tale it told. 

" My heart's sweet lord," ('twas thus she read,) 
"At length our love is garlanded. 
" At Holy Cross, within eight days' space, 
" I seek my shrift ; and the time and place 
" Shall fit thee too for thy soul's good grace. 



32 ROSE MARY. 

" From Holycleugh on the seventh day 
" My brother rides, and bides away : 
" And long or e'er he is back, mine own, 
" Afar where the face of fear 's unknown 
" We shall be safe with our love alone. 

" Ere yet at the shrine my knees I bow, 

" I shear one tress for our holy vow. 

" As round these words these threads I wind, 

" So, eight days hence, shall our loves be twined, 

" Says my lord's poor lady, Jocelind." 

She read it twice, with a brain in thrall, 
And then its echo told her all. 
O'er brows low-fall'n her hands she drew : — 
" O God ! " she said, as her hands fell too, — 
" The Warden's sister of Holycleugh ! " 

She rose upright with a long low moan, 

And stared in the dead man's face new-known. 

Had it lived indeed ? She scarce could tell : 

'T was a cloud where fiends had come to dwell, — 

A mask that hung on the gate of Hell. 



ROSE MARY. 33 

She lifted the lock of gleaming hair 
And smote the lips and left it there. 
"Here 's gold that Hell shall take for thy toll ! 
Full well hath thy treason found its goal, 
O thou dead body and damned soul ! " 

She turned, sore dazed, for a voice was near, 
And she knew that some one called to her. 
On many a column fair and tall 
A high court ran round the castle-hall ; 
And thence it was that the priest did call. 

" I sought your child where you bade me go^ 
And in rooms around and rooms below ; 
But where, alas ! may the maiden be ? 
Fear nought, — we shall find her speedily,— 
But come, come hither, and seek with me." 

She reached the stair like a lifelom thing, 
But hastened upward murmuring : — 
" Yea, Death's is a face that 's fell to see ; 
But bitterer pang Life hoards for thee, .% 

Thou broken heart of Rose Mary ! " 



34 ROSE MARY. 



BERYL-SONG. 



We whose throne is the Beryl, 
Dire- gifted spirits of fire y 
Who for a twin 
Leash Sorrow to Sin^ 
Who on nofiower refrain to lour with peril, — 

We cry, — O desolate daughter ! 
Thou and thy mother share newer shame with each other 
Than last nighfs slaughter. 
Awake and tremble, for our curses assemble! 
What more, that thou know'st not yet, — 
That life nor death shall forget ? 
No help from Heaven, — thy woes heart-riven are sterile! 

O, once a maiden. 
With yet worse sorrow can any morrow be laden ? 
It waits for thee. 
It looms, it must be, 
O lost among women, — 
It comes and thou canst not flee. 
Amen to the omen^ 
Says the voice of the Beryl, 



ROSE MARY. 35 

Thou sleep'' st ? Awake, — 
What dar'st thou yet for his sake, 
Who each for other did God's own Future imperil) 
Dost dare to live 
^Mid the pangs each hour must give ? 
Nay, rather die, — 
With him thy lover ^neath HelPs cloud-cover to fly, — 
Hopeless, yet 7iot apart. 
Cling heart to heart, 
And beat through the nether storm-eddying winds together ? 

Shall this be so 1 
There thou shall meet him, but mafst thou greet him ? 

ah no! 
He loves, but thee he hoped never more to see, — 
He sighed as he died, 
But with never a thought for thee. 
Alone ! 
Alone, for ever alone, — 
Whose eyes were such wondrous spies for the fate for esho7vn \ 
Lo ! have not We leashed the twin 
Of endless Sorrow to Sin, — 
Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril, — 
Dire-gifted spirits of fire, 
We whose throne is the Beryl ? 



36 ROSE MARY. 



PART III. 

A SWOON that breaks is the whelming wave 
When help comes late but still can save. 
With all blind throes is the instant rife, — 
Hurtling clangor and clouds at strife, — 
The breath of death, but the kiss of life. 

The night lay deep on Rose Mary's heart, 

For her swoon was death's kind counterpart : 
The dawn broke dim on Rose Mary's soul, — 
No hill-crown's heavenly aureole, 
But a wild gleam on a shaken shoal. 

Her senses gasped in the sudden air. 

And she looked around, but none was there. 

She felt the slackening frost distil 

Through her blood the last ooze dull and chill 

Her lids were dry and her lips were still. 



ROSE MARY 37 

Her tears had flooded her heart again ; 
As after a long day's bitter rain, 
At dusk when the wet flower-cups shrink, 
The drops run in from the beaded brink, 
And all the close-shut petals drink. 

Again her sighs on her heart were rolled ; 
As the wind that long has swept the wold, — 
Whose moan was made with the moaning sea, — 
Beats out its breath in the last torn tree. 
And sinks at length in lethargy. 

She knew she had waded bosom-deep 
Along death's bank in the sedge of sleep : 
All else was lost to her clouded mind ; 
Nor, looking back, could she see defin'd 
O'er the dim dumb waste what lay behind. 

Slowly fades the sun from the wall 
Till day lies dead on the sun-dial : 
And now in Rose Mary's lifted eye 
'T was shadow alone that made reply 
To the set face of the soul's dark sky. 



38 ROSE MARY, 

Yet still through her soul there wandered past 
Dread phantoms borne on a wailing blast, — 
Death and sorrow and sin and shame ; 
And, murmured still, to her lips there came 
Her mother's and her lover's name. 

How to ask, and what thing to know? 
She might not stay and she dared not go. 
From fires unseen these smoke-clouds curled ; 
But where did the hidden curse he furled? 
And how to seek through the weary world ? 

With toiling breath she rose from the floor 
And dragged her steps to an open door : 
'T was the secret panel standing wide. 
As the lady's hand had let it bide 
In hastening back to her daughter's side. 

She passed, but reeled with a dizzy brain 
And smote the door which closed again. 
She stood within by the darkhng stair, 
But her feet might mount more freely there, — 
T was the open light most blinded her. 



I 



ROSE MARY. 39 

Within her mind no wonder grew 

At the secret path she never knew : 

All ways alike were strange to her now, — 

One field bare-ridged from the spirit's plough, 

One thicket black with the cypress-bough. 

Once she thought that she heard her name ; 
And she paused, but knew not whence it came. 
Down the shadowed stair a faint ray fell 
That guided the weary footsteps well 
Till it led her up to the altar-cell. 

No change there was on Rose Mary's face 
As she leaned in the portal's narrow space : 
Still she stood by the pillar's stem, 
Hand and bosom and garment's hem, 
As the soul stands by at the requiem. 

The altar-cell was a dome low-lit. 

And a veil hung in the midst of it : 

At the pole-points of its circling girth 

Four symbols stood of the world's first birth, — 

Air and water and fire and earth. 



40 I^OSE MARY, 

To the north, a fountain glittered free ,• 
To the south, there glowed a red fruit-tree ; 
To the east, a lamp flamed high and fair ; 
To the west, a crystal casket rare 
Held fast a cloud of the fields of air. 

The painted walls were a mystic show 

Of time's ebb-tide and overflow ; 

His hoards long-locked and conquering key, 

His service-fires that in heaven be, 

And earth-wheels whirled perpetually. 

Rose Mary gazed from the open door 
As on idle things she cared not for, — 
The fleeting shapes of an empty tale ; 
Then stepped with a heedless visage pale, 
And hfted aside the altar-veil. 

The altar stood from its curved recess 
In a coiling serpent's life-likeness : 
Even such a serpent evermore 
Lies deep asleep at the world's dark core 
Till the last Voice shake the sea and shore. 



ROSE MARY. 41 

From the altar-cloth a book rose spread 
And tapers burned at the altar-head ; 
And there in the altar-midst alone, 
'Twixt wings of a sculptured beast unknown, 
Rose Mary saw the Beryl-stone. 

Firm it sat 'twixt the hollowed wings, 
As an orb sits in the hand of kings : 
And lo ! for that Foe whose curse far-flown 
Had bound her life with a burning zone, 
Rose Mary knew the Beryl-stone. 

Dread is the meteor's blazing sphere 
When the poles throb to its blind career ; 
But not with a light more grim and ghast 
Thereby is the future doom forecast, 
Than now this sight brought back the past. 

The hours and minutes seemed to whirr 
In a clanging swarm that deafened her ; 
They stung her heart to a writhing flame, 
And marshalled past in its glare they came, — 
Death and sorrow and sin and shame. 



42 ROSE MARY. 

Round the Beryl's sphere she saw them pass 
And mock her eyes from the fated glass : 
One by one in a fiery train 
The dead hours seemed to wax and wane, 
And burned till all was kno\vn again. 

From the drained heart's fount there rose no cry, 
There sprang no tears, for the source was dry. 
Held in the hand of some heavy law, 
Her eyes she might not once withdraw 
Nor slirink away from the thing she saw. 

Even as she gazed, through all her blood 
The flame was quenched in a coming flood ; 
Out of the depth of the hollow gloom 
On her soul's bare sands she felt it boom, — 
The measured tide of a sea of doom. 

Three steps she took through the altar-gate. 
And her neck reared and her arms grew straight : 
The sinews clenched like a serpent's throe, 
And the face was white in the dark hair's flow. 
As her hate beheld what lay below. 



ROSE MARY. 43 

Dumb she stood in her malisons, — 
A silver statue tressed with bronze : 
As the fabled head by Perseus mown, 
It seemed in sooth that her gaze alone 
Had turned the carven shapes to stone. 

O'er the altar-sides on either hand 
There hung a dinted helm and brand : 
By strength thereof, 'neath the Sacred Sign,. 
That bitter gift o'er the salt sea-brine 
Her father brought from Palestine. 

Rose Mary moved with a stem accord 
And reached her hand to her father's sword ; 
Nor did she stir her gaze one whit 
From the thing whereon her brows were knit ; 
But gazing still, she spoke to it. 

"O ye, tliree times accurst," she said, 
" By whom this stone is tenanted ! 
Lo ! here ye came by a strong sin's might ; 
Yet a sinner's hand that 's weak to smite 
Shall send you hence ere the day be night. 



44 ROSE MARY. 

" This hour a clear voice bade me know 
My hand shall work your overthrow : 
Another thing in mine ear it spake, — 
With the broken spell my life shall break. 
I thank Thee, God, for the dear death's sake ! 

" And he Thy heavenly minister 

Who swayed erewhile this spell-bound sphere, — 

My parting soul let him haste to greet. 

And none but he be guide for my feet 

To where Thy rest is made complete." 

Then deep she breathed, with a tender moan : — 

" My love, my lord, my only one ! 

Even as I held the cursed clue. 

When thee, through me, these foul ones slew, — 

By mine own deed shall they slay me too ! 

" Even while they speed to Hell, my love, 
Two hearts shall meet in Heaven above. 
Our shrift thou sought'st, but might' st not bring : 
And oh ! for me 't is a blessed thing 
To work hereby our ransoming. 



ROSE MARY. 45 

" One were our hearts in joy and pain, 
And our souls e'en now grow one again. 
And O my love, if our souls are three, 
O thine and mine shall the third soul be, — 
One threefold love eternally." 

Her eyes were soft as she spoke apart. 

And the lips smiled to the broken heart : 

But the glance was dark and the forehead scored 

With the bitter frown of hate restored. 

As her two hands swung the heavy sword. 

Three steps back from her Foe she trod : — 
" Love, for thy sake ! In Thy Name, O God 1 " 
In the fair white hands small strength was shown ; 
Yet the blade flashed high and the edge fell prone, 
And she cleft the heart of the Beryl-stone. 

What living flesh in the thunder-cloud 

Hath sat and felt heaven cry aloud? 

Or known how the levin's pulse may beat ? 

Or wrapped the hour when the whirlwinds meet 

About its breast for a winding-sheet ? 



46 ROSE MARY. 

Who hath crouched at the world's deep heart 
While the earthquake rends its loins apart ? 
Or walked far under the seething main 
While overhead the heavens ordain 
The tempest-towers of the hurricane ? 

Who hath seen or what ear hath heard 
The secret things unregister'd 
Of the place where all is past and done 
And tears and laughter sound as one 
In Hell''s unhallowed unison ? 

Nay, is it writ how the fiends despair 
In earth and water and fire and air? 
Even so no mortal tongue may tell 
How to the clang of the sword that fell 
The echoes shook the altar-cell. 

When all was still on the air again 
The Beryl-stone lay cleft in twain ; 
The veil was rent from the riven dome ; 
And every wind that 's winged to roam 
Might have the ruined place for home. 



ROSE MARV. 47 

The fountain no more glittered free ; 
The fruit hung dead on the leafless tree j 
The flame of the lamp had ceased to flare ; 
And the crystal casket shattered there 
Was emptied now of its cloud of air. 

And lo ! on the ground Rose Mary lay, 
With a cold brow like the snows ere May, 
With a cold breast like the earth till Spring, 
With such a smile as the June days bring 
When the year grows warm for harvesting. 

The death she had won might leave no trace 
On the soft sweet form and gentle face : 
In a gracious sleep she seemed to lie ; 
And over her head her hand on high 
Held fast the sword she triumphed by. 

'T was then a clear voice said in the room : — 

" Behold the end of the heavy doom. 

O come, — for thy bitter love's sake blest ; 

By a sweet path now thou journeyest, 

And I will lead thee to thy rest. 



48 ROSE MARY. 

" Me thy sin by Heaven's sore ban 
Did chase erewhile from the talisman : 
But to my heart, as a conquered home, 
In glory of strength thy footsteps come 
Who hast thus cast forth my foes therefrom. 

" Already thy heart remembereth 
No more his name thou sought'st in death : 
For under all deeps, all heights above, — 
So wide the gulf in the midst thereof, — 
Are Hell of Treason and Heaven of Love. 

" Thee, true soul, shall thy truth prefer 
To blessed Mary's rose-bower ; 
Warmed and lit is thy place afar 
With guerdon-fires of the sweet Love-star 
Where hearts of steadfast lovers are : — 

" Though naught for the poor corpse lying here 
Remain to-day but the cold white bier, 
But burial-chaunt and bended knee, 
But sighs and tears that heaviest be. 
But rent rose-flower and rosemary." 



ROSE MARY, 49 



BERYL-SONG. 



We, cast forth from the Beryl, 
Gyre-circling spirits of fire. 
Whose pangs begin 
With God's grace to sin, 
For whose sperit powers the immortal hours are sterile, — 

Woe I must We behold this mother 
Find grace in her dead child's face, and doubt of none 

other 
But that perfect pardon, alas ! hath assured her guerdon? 

Woe I must We behold this daughter, 
Made clean from the soil of sin wherewith We had 
fraught her, 

Shake off a man's blood like water 1 
Write up her story 
On the Gate of HeaveJi's glory. 
Whom there We behold so fair in shining apparel, 
And beneath her the ruin 
Of our own undoing / 

Alas, the Beryl! 
We had for afoeman 
But one weak woman ; 



50 ROSE MARY. 

In one day's strife^ 
Her hope fell dead from her life; 
And yet no irofiy 
Her soul to environ^ 
Could this manslayer, this false soothsayer imperil! 
Lo, where she bows 
In the Holy House! 
Who Jiow shall dissever her soul from its joy for ever, 
While every ditty 
Of love and plentiful pity 
Fills the White City, 
And the floor of Heaven to her feet for ever is 
given ? 

Hark, a voice cries '* Flee /" 
Woe ! woe ! what shelter have We^ 
Whose pangs begin 
With God's grace to sin, 
For whose spent powers the immortal hours are sterile. 
Gyre-circling spirits of fire. 
We, cast forth from the Beryl 1 



THE WHITE SHIP. 



THE WHITE SHIP. 

Henry I. of England. -t 25TH Nov., 11 20, 

By none but me can the tale be told, 
The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. 

{Lands are swayed hy a Kiiig on a throne^ 
* T was a royal train put forth to sea, 
Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 

(Tke sea hath no King but God alone.) 

King Henry held it as life's whole gain 
That after his death his son should reign. 

'Twas so in my youth I heard men say, 
And my old age calls it back to-day. 

King Henry of England's realm was he, 
And Henry Duke of Normandy. 



54 THE WHITE SHIP. 

The times had changed when on either coast 
*' Clerkly Harry " was all his boast. 

Of ruthless strokes full many an one 

He had struck to crown himself and his son ; 

And his elder brother's eyes were gone. 

And when to the chase his court would crowd, 

The poor flung ploughshares on his road, 

And shrieked : " Our cry is from King to God ! " 

But all the chiefs of the English land 
Had knelt and kissed the Prince's hand. 

And next with his son he sailed to France 
To claim the Norman allegiance : 

And every baron in Normandy 
Had taken the oath of fealty. 

'T was sworn and sealed, and the day had come 
When the King and the Prince might journey home 

For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear, 
And Christmas now was drawing near. 



THE WHITE SHIP. 55 

Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King, — 
A pilot famous in seafaring ; 

And he held to the King, in all men's sight, 
A mark of gold for his tribute's right. 

" Liege Lord ! my father guided the ship 
From whose boat your father's foot did slip 
When he caught the English soil in his grip, 

" And cried : ' By this clasp I claim command 
O'er every rood of English land ! ' 

" He was borne to the realm you rule o'er now 
In that ship with the archer carved at her prow : 

" And thither I '11 bear, an' it be my due, 
Your father's son and his grandson too. 

''The famed White Ship is mine in the bay; 
From Rarfleur's harbor she sails to-day, 

"With masts fair-pennoned as Norman spears 
And with fifty well-tried mariners." 



56 



THE WHITE SHIP. 



Quoth the King : " My ships are chosen each one, 
But I '11 not say nay to Stephen's son. 

" My son and daughter and fellowship 
Shall cross the water in the White Ship." 

The King set sail with the eve's south wind, 
And soon he left that coast behind. 

The Prince and all his, a princely show, 
Remained in the good White Ship to go. 

With noble knights and with ladies fair, 
With courtiers and sailors gathered there, 
Three hundred living souls we were : 

And I Berold was the meanest hind 
In all that train to the Prince assign'd. 

The Prince was a lawless shameless youth ; 
From his father's loins he sprang without ruth : 



Eighteen years till then he had seen. 
And the devil's dues in him were eighteen. 



THE WHITE SHIP. 57 

And now he cried : " Bring wine from below \ 
Let the sailors revel ere yet they row : 

'' Our speed shall o'ertake my father's flight 
Though we sail from the harbor at midnight." 

The rowers made good cheer without check ; 

The lords and ladies obeyed his beck ; 

The night was hght, and they danced on the deck. 

But at midnight's stroke they cleared the bay, 
And the White Ship furrowed the water-way. 

The sails were set, and the oars kept tune 

To the double flight of the ship and the moon : 

Swifter and swifter the White Ship sped 

Till she flew as the spirit flies from the dead : 

As white as a lily glimmered she 
Like a ship's fair ghost upon the sea. 

And the Prince cried, " Friends, 't is the hour to sing ! 
Is a songbird's course so swift on the wing? " 



58 THE WHITE SHIP. 

And under the winter stars' still throng, 

From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong, 

The knights and the ladies raised a song. 

A song, — nay, a shriek that rent the sky, 
That leaped o'er the deep ! — the grievous cry 
Of three hundred living that now must die. 

An instant shriek that sprang to the shock 
As the ship's keel felt the sunken rock. 

'T is said that afar — a shrill strange sigh — 
The King's ships heard it and knew not why. 

Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm 

'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm. 

A great King's heir for the waves to whelm. 
And the helpless pilot pale at the helm ! 

The ship was eager and sucked athirst, 

By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierc'd : 

And like the moil round a sinking cup. 
The waters against her crowded up. 



THE WHITE SHIP. 59 

A moment the pilot's senses spin, — 

The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din, 

Cut the boat loose, and the youth leaped in. 

A few friends leaped with him, standing near. 

" Row ! the sea 's smooth and the night is clear ! " 

" What ! none to be saved but these and I ? " 
" Row, row as you 'd live ! All here must die ! " 

Out of the chum of the choking ship, 
Which the gulf grapples and the waves strip, 
They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip. 

'T was then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brim 
The Prince's sister screamed to him. 

He gazed aloft, still rowing apace, 

And through the whirled surf he knew her face. 

To the toppling decks clave one and all 
As a fly cleaves to a chamber-wall. 



6o 



THE WHITE SHIP. 



I Berold was clinging anear ; 

I prayed for myself and quaked with fear, 

But I saw his eyes as he looked at her. 

He knew her face and he heard her cry, 
And he said, " Put back ! she must not die ! " 

And back with the current's force they reel 
Like a leaf that 's drawn to a water-wheel. 

'Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float. 
But he rose and stood in the rocking boat. 

Low the poor ship leaned on the tide : 
O'er the naked keel as she best might slide. 
The sister toiled to the brother's side. 

He reached an oar to her from below, 
And stiffened his arms to clutch her so. 



But now from the ship some spied the boat, 
And " Saved ! " was the cry from many a throat. 



THE WHITE SHIP. 6 1 

And down to the boat they leaped and fell : 

It turned as a bucket turns in a well, 

And nothing was there but the surge and swell. 

The Prince that was and the King to come, 
There in an instant gone to his doom. 

Despite of all England's bended knee 
And maugre the Norman fealty ! 

He was a Prince of lust and pride ; 

He showed no grace till the hour he died. 

When he should be King, he oft would vow, 
He 'd yoke the peasant to his own plough. 
O'er him the ships score their furrows now. 

God only knows where his soul did wake, 
But I saw him die for his sister's sake. 

By none but me can the tale be told, 
The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. 

{Lands are swayed by a King on a throne^ 



62 THE WHITE SHIP. 

'T was a royal train put forth to sea, 
Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 
{The sea hath no King but God alone.) 

And now the end came o'er the waters' womb 
Like the last great Day that 's yet to come. 

With prayers in vain and curses in vain, 
The White Ship sundered on the mid-main : 

And what were men and what was a ship 
Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip. 

I Berold was down in the sea \ 

And passing strange though the thing may be, 

Of dreams then known I remember me. 

Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand 
When morning lights the sails to land ; 

And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloam 
When mothers call the children home : 

And high do the bells of Rouen beat 

"When the Body of Christ goes down the street. 



THE WHITE SHIP, 63 

These things and the like were heard and shown 
In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone ; 

And when I rose, 't was the sea did seem, 
And not these things, to be all a dream. 

The ship was gone and the crowd was gone, 
And the deep shuddered and the moon shone : 

And in a strait grasp my arms did span 

The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran ; 

And on it with me was another man. 

Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea-sky. 
We told our names, that man and I. 

" O I am Godefroy de I'Aigle hight, 
And son I am to a belted knight." 

" And I am Berold the butcher's son 
Who slays the beasts in Rouen town." 

Then cried we upon God's name, as we 
Did drift on the bitter winter sea. 



64 THE WHITE SHIP. 

But lo ! a third man rose o'er the wave, 

And we said, " Thank God ! us three may He save ! " 

He clutched to the yard with panting stare, 
And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there. 

He clung, and "What of the Prince?" quoth he. 
" Lost, lost ! " we cried. He cried, " Woe on me ! " 
And loosed his hold and sank tlirough the sea. 

And soul with soul again in that space 
We two were together face to face : 

And each knew each, as the moments sped, 
Less for one living than for one dead : 

And every still star overhead 

Seemed an eye that knew we were but dead. 

And the hours passed ; till the noble's son 

Sighed, " God be thy help ! my strength 's foredone ! 

" O farewell, friend, for I can no more ! " 

"Christ take thee ! " I moaned ; and his life was o'er. 



THE WHITE SHIP. 65 

Three hundred souls were all lost but one, 
And I drifted over the sea alone. 

At last the morning rose on the sea 

Like an angel's wing that beat tow'rds me. 

Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat ; 
Half dead I hung, and might nothing note, 
Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher-boat. 

The sun was high o'er the eastern brim 
As I praised God and gave thanks to Him. 

That day I told my tale to a priest, 

Who charged me, till the shrift were releas'd, 

That I should keep it in mine own breast. 

And with the priest I thence did fare 
To King Henry's court at Winchester. 

We spoke with the King's high chamberlain, 
And he wept and mourned again and again. 
As if his own son had been slain : 



66 



THE WHITE SHIP. 



And round us ever there crowded fast 
Great men with faces all aghast : 

And who so bold that might tell the thing 
Which now they knew to their lord the King ? 
Much woe I learnt in their communing. 

The King had watched with a heart sore stirred 
For two whole days, and this was the third : 

And still to all his court would he say, 
" What keeps my son so long away ? " 

And they said : " The ports lie far and wide 
That skirt the swell of the English tide ; 

" And England's chffs are not more white 
Than her women are, and scarce so light 
Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright ; 

" And in some port that he reached from France 
The Prince has lingered for his pleasaunce." 



But once the King asked : " What distant cry 
Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky? " 



THE WHITE SHIP. 67 

And one said : " With suchlike shouts, pardie ! 
Do the fishers fling their nets at sea." 

And one : " Who knows not the shrieking quest 
When the sea-mew misses its young from the nest? " 

'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread, 
Albeit they knew not what they said : 

But who should speak to-day of the thing 
That all knew there except the King? 

Then pondering much they found a way, 
And met round the King's high seat that day : 

And the King sat with a heart sore stirred, 
And seldom he spoke and seldom heard. 

'T was then through the hall the King was 'ware 
Of a little boy with golden hair, 

As bright as the golden poppy is 

That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss ; 



68 THE WHITE SHIP. 

Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in Spring, * 
And his garb black like the raven's wing. 

Nothing heard but his foot through the hall, 
For now the lords were silent all. 

And the King wondered, and said, " Alack ! 
Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black? 

" Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall 
As though my court were a funeral? " 

Then lowly knelt the child at the dais. 
And looked up weeping in the King's face. 

" O wherefore black, O King, ye may say. 
For white is the hue of death to-day. 

" Your son and all his fellowship 

Lie low in the sea with the White Ship." 



King Henry fell as a man struck dead ; 
And speechless still he stared from his bed 
When to him next day my rede I read. 



THE WHITE SHIP. 69 

There 's many an hour must needs beguile 
A King's high heart that he should smile, — 

Full many a lordly hour, full fain 

Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign : — 

But this King never smiled again. 

By none but me can the tale be told, 
The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. 

{Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.) 
'T was a royal train put forth to sea. 
Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 

{The sea hath no King but God alone.) 



THE KING'S TRAGEDY. 



NOTE. 

Tradition says that Catherine Douglas, in honor of her heroic 
act when she barred the door with her arm against the murderers 
of James the First of Scots, received popularly the name of 
"Barlass." This name remains to her descendants, the Barlas 
family, in Scotland, who bear for their crest a broken arm. She 
married Alexander Lovell of Bolunnie. 

A few stanzas from King James's lovely poem, known as The 
King's Quhair, are quoted in the course of this ballad. The writer 
must express regret for the necessity which has compelled him to 
shorten the ten-syllabled lines to eight syllables, in order that they 
might harmonize with the ballad metre. 



THE KING'S TRAGEDY. 

James I. of Scots. — 20Th February, 1437. 



I Catherine am a Douglas bom, 

A name to all Scots dear ; 
And Kate Barlass they 've called me now 

Through many a waning year. 

This old arm 's withered now. 'T was once 

Most deft 'mong maidens all 
To rein the steed, to wing the shaft. 

To smite the palm-play ball. 

In hall adown the close-linked dance 
It has shone most white and fair ; 
It has been the rest for a true lord's head, 
And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed, 
And the bar to a King's chambere. 



74 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 



Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass, 

And hark with bated breath 
How good King James, King Robert's son, 

Was foully done to death. 

Through all the days of his gallant youth 

The princely James was pent. 
By his friends at first and then by his foes, 

In long imprisonment. 

For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir. 

By treason's murderous brood 
Was slain ; and the father quaked for the child 

With the royal mortal blood. 

I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care. 

Was his childhood's life assured ; 
And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke, 
Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke 

His youth for long years immured. 



Yet in all things meet for a kingly man 

Himself did he approve ; 
And the nightingale through his prison-wall 

Taught him both lore and love. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY, /5 

For once, when the bird's song drew him close 

To the opened window-pane, 
In her bowers beneath a lady stood, 
A light of life to his sorrowful mood, 

Like a lily amid the rain. 

And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note, 

He framed a sweeter Song, 
More sweet than ever a poet's heart 

Gave yet to the English tongue. 

She was a lady of royal blood ; 

And when, past sorrow and teen, 
He stood where still through his crownless years 

His Scotish realm had been. 
At Scone were the happy lovers crowned, 

A heart-wed King and Queen. 

But the bird may fall from the bough of youth, 

And song be turned to moan, 
And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate, 
When the tempest-waves of a troubled State 

Are beating against a throne. 



76 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 



Yet well they loved \ and the god of Love, 
Whom well the King had sung, 

Might find on the earth no truer hearts 
His lowliest swains among. 

From the days when first she rode abroad 
With Scotish maids in her train, 

I Catherine Douglas won the trust 
Of my mistress sweet Queen Jane. 

And oft she sighed, " To be bom a King 1 '' 

And oft along the way 
When she saw the homely lovers pass 

She has said, " Alack the day ! " 

Years waned, — the loving and toiling years : 

Till England's wrong renewed 
Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown, 

To the open field of feud. 



'T was when the King and his host were met 
At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold. 

The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp 
With a tale of dread to be told. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 77 

And she showed him a secret letter writ 

That spoke of treasonous strife, 
And how a band of his noblest lords 

Were sworn to take his Hfe. 

" And it may be here or it may be there, 
In the camp or the court," she said : 

" But for my sake come to your people's arms 
And guard your royal head." 

Quoth he, '' 'T is the fifteenth day of the siege, 

And the castle 's nigh to yield." 
" O face your foes on your throne," she cried, 

" And show the power you wield ; 
And under your Scotish people's love 

You shall sit as under your shield." 

At the fair Queen's side I stood that day 
When he bade them raise the siege. 

And back to his Court he sped to know 
How the lords would meet their Liege. 

But when he summoned his Parliament, 
The louring brows hung round, 



yS THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 

Like clouds that circle the mountain-head 
Ere the first low thunders sound. 

For he had tamed the nobles' lust 
And curbed their power and pride, 

And reached out an arm to right the poor 
Through Scotland far and wide ; 

And many a lordly wrong-doer 
By the headsman's axe had died. 

'T was then upspoke Sir Robert Graeme, 
The bold o'ermastering man : — 

*' O King, in the name of your Three Estates 
I set you under their ban ! 

" For, as your lords made oath to you 

Of service and fealty. 
Even in like wise you pledged your oath 

Their faithful sire to be : — 

" Yet all we here that are nobly sprung 
Have mourned dear kith and kin 

Since first for the Scotish Barons' curse 
Did your bloody rule begin." 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 79 

With that he laid his hands on his King : — 

*' Is this not so, my lords ? " 
But of all who had sworn to league with him 

Not one spake back to his words. 

Quoth the King : •— " Thou speak'st but for one Estate, 

Nor doth it avow thy gage. 
Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence ! " 

The Grseme fired dark with rage : — 
" Who works for lesser men than himself, 

He earns but a witless wage ! " 

But soon from the dungeon where he lay 

He won by privy plots, 
And forth he fled with a price on his head 

To the country of the Wild Scots. 

And word there came from Sir Robert Graeme 

To the King at Edinbro' : — 
" No Liege of mine thou art ; but I see 
From this day forth alone in thee 

God's creature, my mortal foe. 



8o THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 

" Through thee are my wife and children lost, 

My heritage and lands ; 
And when my God shall show me a way, 
Thyself my mortal foe will I slay 

With these my proper hands." 

Against the coming of Christmastide 

That year the King bade call 
I' the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth 

A solemn festival. 

And we of his household rode with him 

In a close- ranked company ; 
But not till the sun had sunk from his throne 

Did we reach the Scotish Sea. 

That eve was clenched for a boding storm, 
'Neath a toilsome moon half seen ; 

The cloud stooped low and the surf rose high ; 

And where there was a line of the sky, 
Wild wings loomed dark between. 

And on a rock of the black beach-side, 
By the veiled moon dimly lit. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 

There was something seemed to heave with Ufe 
As the King drew nigh to it. 

And was it only the tossing furze 

Or brake of the waste sea-wold ? 
Or was it an eagle bent to the blast? 
When near we came, we knew it at last 

For a woman tattered and old. 

But it seemed as though by a fire within 

Her writhen limbs were wrung ; 
And as soon as the King was close to her^ 

She stood up gaunt and strong. 

*T was then the moon sailed clear of the rack 

On high in her hollow dome ; 
And still as aloft with hoary crest 

Each clamorous wave rang home, 
Like fire in snow the moonlight blazed 

Amid the champing foam. 

And the woman held his eyes with her eyes : — 

" O King, thou art come at last ; 
But thy wraith has haunted the Scotish Sea 

To my sight for four years past. 



82 THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 

" Four years it is since first I met, 
'Twixt the Duchray and the Dhu, 

A shape whose feet clung close in a shroud, 
And that shape for thine I knew. 

** A year again, and on Inchkeith Isle 

I saw thee pass in the breeze, 
With the cerecloth risen above thy feet 

And wound about thy knees. 

" And yet a year, in the Links of Forth, 

As a wanderer without rest, 
Thou cam'st with both thine arms i' the shroud 

That clung high up thy breast. 

" And in this hour I find thee here, 

And well mine eyes may note 
That the winding-sheet hath passed thy breast 

And risen around thy throat. 

" And when I meet thee again, O King, 

That of death hast such sore drouth, — 
Except thou turn again on this shore, — 
The winding-sheet shall have moved once more 
And covered thine eyes and mouth. 



the" KING'S TRAGEDY, 83 

" O King, whom poor men bless for their King, 

Of thy fate be not so fain ; 
But these my words for God's message take, 
And turn thy steed, O King, for her sake 

Who rides beside thy rein ! " 

While the woman spoke, the King's horse reared 

As if it would breast the sea, 
And the Queen turned pale as she heard on the gale 

The voice die dolorously. 

When the woman ceased, the steed was still, 

But the King gazed on her yet. 
And in silence save for the wail of the sea 

His eyes and her eyes met. 

At last he said : — " God's ways are His own ; 

Man is but shadow and dust. 
Last night I prayed by His altar-stone j 
To-night I wend to the Feast of His Son ; 

And in Him I set my trust. 

" I have held my people in sacred charge. 
And have not feared the sting 



84 THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 

Of proud men's hate, — to His will resign*d 
Who has but one same death for a hind 
And one same death for a King. 

*' And if God in His wisdom have brought close 

The day when I must die, 
That day by water or fire or air 
My feet shall fall in the destined snare 

Wherever my road may lie. 

" What man can say but the Fiend hath set 

Thy sorcery on my path, 
My 'heart with the fear of death to fill, 
And turn me against God's very will 

To sink in His burning wrath ? " 

The woman stood as the train rode past, 

And moved nor hmb nor eye ; 
And when we were shipped, we saw her there 

Still standing against the sky. 

As the ship made way, the moon once more 

Sank slow in her rising pall ; 
And I thought of the shrouded wraith of the King, 

And I said, " The Heavens know all.'* 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 8$ 

And now, ye lasses, must ye hear 

How my name is Kate Barlass : — 
But a little thing, when all the tale 

Is told of the weary mass 
Of crime and woe which in Scotland's realm 

God's will let come to pass. 

'T was m the Charterhouse of Perth 

That the King and all his Court 
Were met, the Christmas Feast being done, 

For solace and disport. 

'T was a wind-wild eve in February, 

And against the casement-pane 
The branches smote like summoning hands 

And muttered the driving rain. 

And when the wind swooped over the lift 

And made the whole heaven frown. 
It seemed a grip was laid on the walls 

To tug the housetop down. 

And the Queen was there, more stately fair 
Than a lily in garden set ; 



86 THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 

And the King was loth to stir from her side \ 
For as on the day when she was his bride, 
Even so he loved her yet. 

And the Earl of Athole, the King's fabe friend, 

Sat with him at the board ; 
And Robert Stuart the chamberlain 

Who had sold his sovereign Lord. 

Yet the traitor Christopher Chaumber there 

Would fain have told him all, 
And vainly four times that night he strove 

To reach the King through the hall. 

But the wine is bright at the goblet's brim 

Though the poison lurk beneath ; 
And the apples still are red on the tree 
Within whose shade may the adder be 
That shall turn thy life to death. 

There was a knight of the King's fast friends 
Whom he called the King of Love ; 

And to such bright cheer and courtesy 
That name might best behove. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 8/ 

And the King and Queen both loved him well 

For his gentle knightliness \ 
And with him the King, as that eve wore on, 

Was playing at the chess. 

And the King said, (for he thought to jest 

And soothe the Queen thereby ;) -— 
" In a book 't is writ that this same year 

A King shall in Scotland die. 

" And I have pondered the matter o'er. 

And this have I found. Sir Hugh, — 
There are but two Kings on Scotish ground, 

And those Kings are I and you. 

*' And I have a wife and a newborn heir, 

And you are yourself alone ; 
So stand you stark at my side with me 

To guard our double throne. 

" For here sit I and my wife and child. 

As well your heart shall approve, 
In full surrender and soothfastness, 

Beneath your Kingdom of Love." 



88 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 



And the Knight laughed, and the Queen too smiled ; 

But I knew her heavy thought, 
And I strove to find in the good King's jest 

What cheer might thence be wrought. 



And I said, " My Liege, for the Queen's dear love 

Now sing the song that of old 
You made, when a captive Prince you lay, 
And the nightingale sang sweet on the spray, 

In Windsor's castle-hold." 



Then he smiled the smile I knew so well 
When he thought to please the Queen ; 

The smile which under all bitter frowns 
Of hate that rose between, 

For ever dwelt at the poet's heart 
Like the bird of love unseen. 



And he kissed her hand and took his harp, 

And the music sweetly rang ; 
And when the song burst forth, it seemed 

'Twas the nightingale that sang. 



I 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 89 

" Worship, ye lovers, on this May : 

Of bliss your kalends are begun : 
Sing with us, Away, Winter, away ! 

Come, Summer, the sweet season and sun ! 

Awake for shame, — your heaven is won, — 
And amorously your heads lift all: 
Thank Love, that you to his grace doth call 1^^ 

But when he bent to the Queen, and sang 

The speech whose praise was hers, 
It seemed his voice was the voice of the Spring 

And the voice of the bygone years. 

" The fairest and the freshest flower 
That ever I saw before that hour, 
The which 0' the sudden made to start 
The blood of my body to my heart, 

***** 
Ah sweet, are ye a worldly creature 
Or heavenly thing inform of nature ? " 

And the song was long, and richly stored 
With wonder and beauteous things ; 



90 THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 

And the harp was tuned to every change 

Of minstrel ministerings ; 
But when he spoke of the Queen at the last. 

Its strings were his own heart-strings. 

" Unworthy but only of her grace, 

Upon Love's rock that 's easy and sure. 

In guerdon of all my love's space 
She took me her humble creature. 
Thus fell my blissful aventure 

In youth of love that from day to day 

Flowereth aye new, and further I say, 

** To reckon all the circumstance 

As it happed when lessen gan my sore, 

Of my rancor and woful chajice, 

It were too long, — I have done therefor. 
And of this flower I say no more 

Bui unto ?Jiy help her heart hath tended 

And even from death her man defended:' 

"Aye, even from death," to myself I said; 

For I thought of the day when she 
Had borne him the news, at Roxbro' siege, 

Of the fell confederacy. 



I 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 9 1 

But Death even then took aim as he sang 

With an arrow deadly bright ; 
And the grinning skull lurked grimly aloof, 
And the wings were spread far over the roof 

More dark than the winter night. 

Yet truly along the amorous song 

Of Love's high pomp and state, 
There were words of Fortune's trackless doom 

And the dreadful face of Fate. 

And oft have I heard again in dreams 

The voice of dire appeal 
In which the King then sang of the pit 

That is under Fortune's wheel. 

" And under the wheel beheld I there 

An ugly Pit as deep as hell, 
That to behold I quaked for fear : 

And this I heard ^ that who therein fell 

Came no more up, tidings to tell : 
Whereat, astound of the fearful sight, 
I wist not what to do for fright, '^^ 



92 THE KING'S TRAGEDY, 

And oft has my thought called up again 

These words of the changeful song : — 
" Wist thou thy pain and thy travail 
To come^ well mighfst thou weep and wail!^^ 
And our wail, O God ! is long. 

But the song's end was all of his love ; 

And well his heart was grac'd 
With her smiling lips and her tear-bright eyes 

As his arm went round her waist. 

And on the swell of her long fair throat 

Close clung the necklet-chain 
As he bent her pearl-tir'd head aside, 
And in the warmth of his love and pride 

He kissed her lips full fain. 

And her true face was a rosy red, 

The very red of the rose 
That, couched on the happy garden-bed, 

In the summer sunlight glows. 

And all the wondrous things of love 
That sang so sweet through the song 

Were in the look that met in their eyes. 
And the look was deep and long. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 93 

T was then a knock came at the outer gate. 

And the usher sought the King. 
" The woman you met by the Scotish Sea, 

My Liege, would tell you a thing ; 
And she says that her present need for speech 

Will bear no gainsaying." 

And the King said : " The hour is late ; 

To-morrow will serve, I ween." 
Then he charged the usher strictly, and said : 

" No word of this to the Queen." 

But the usher came again to the King. 

" Shall I call her back? " quoth he : 
" For as she went on her way, she cried, 

* Woe ! Woe ! then the thing must be ! * " 

And the King paused, but he did not speak. 

Then he called for the Voidee-cup : 
And as we heard the twelfth hour strike, 
There by true lips and false lips alike 

Was the draught of trust drained up. 

So with reverence meet to King and Queen, 
To bed went all from the board ; 



94 THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 

And the last to leave of the courtly train 
Was Robert Stuart the chamberlain 
Who had sold his sovereign lord. 

And all the locks of the chamber-door 

Had the traitor riven and brast ; 
And that Fate might win sure way from afar, 
He had drawn out every bolt and bar 
That made the entrance fast. 

And now at midnight he stole his way 
To the moat of the outer wall, 

And laid strong hurdles closely across 
Where the traitors' tread should fall. 

But we that were the Queen's bower-maids 

Alone were left behind ; 
And with heed we drew the curtains close 

Against the winter wind. 

And now that all was still through the hall, 
More clearly we heard the rain 

That clamored ever against the glass 
And the boughs that beat on the pane. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 95 

But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook, 

And through empty space around 
The shadows cast on the arras'd wall 
'Mid the pictured kings stood sudden and tall 

Like spectres sprung from the ground. 

And the bed was dight in a deep alcove ; 

And as he stood by the fire 
The king was still in talk with the Queen 

While he doffed his goodly attire. 

And the song had brought the image back 

Of many a bygone year ; 
And many a loving word they said 
With hand in hand and head laid to head ; 

And none of us went anear. 

But Love was weeping outside the house, 

A child in the piteous rain ; 
And as he watched the arrow of Death, 
He wailed for his own shafts close in the sheath 

That never should fly again. 

And now beneath the window arose 
A wild voice suddenly : 



96 THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 

And the King reared straight, but the Queen feU back 

As for bitter dule to dree ; 
And all of us knew the woman's voice 

Who spoke by the Scotish Sea. 

" O King," she cried, " in an evil hour 

They drove me from thy gate ; 
And yet my voice must rise to thine ears ; 

But alas ! it comes too late ! 

" Last night at raid-watch, by Aberdour, 
When the moon was dead in the skies, 

O King, in a death-light of thine own 
I saw thy shape arise. 

" And in full season, as erst I said, 

The doom had gained its growth ; 
And the shroud had risen above thy neck 

And covered thine eyes and mouth. 

" And no moon woke, but the pale dawn broke, 

And still thy soul stood there ; 
And I thought its silence cried to my soul 

As the first rays crowned its hair. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 97 

" Since then have I journeyed fast and fain 

In very despite of Fate, 
Lest Hope might still be found in God's will s 

But they drove me from thy gate. 

" For every man on God's ground, O King, 

His death grows up from his birth 
In a shadow-plant perpetually ; 

And thine towers high, a black yew-tree, 

O'er the Charterhouse of Perth ! " 

That room was built far out from the house ; 

And none but we in the room 
Might hear the voice that rose beneath, 

Nor the tread of the coming doom. 

For now there came a torchlight-glare, 

And a clang of arms there came j 
And not a soul in that space but thought 

Of the foe Sir Robert Graeme. 

Yea, from the country of the Wild Scots, 

O'er mountain, valley, and glen, 
He had brought with him in murderous league 

Three hundred armed men. 



98 THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 

The King knew all in an instant's flash , 

And like a King did he stand ; 
But there was no armor in all the room, 

Nor weapon lay to his hand. 

And all we women flew to the door 
And thought to have made it fast ; 

But the bolts were gone and the bars were gone 
And the locks were riven and brast. 

And he caught the pale pale Queen in his arms 

As the iron footsteps fell, — 
Then loosed her, standing alone, and said, 

*' Our bliss was our farewell ! " 

And 'twixt his lips he murmured a prayer. 

And he crossed his brow and breast \ 
And proudly in royal hardihood 
Even so with folded arms he stood, — 
The prize of the bloody quest. 

Then on me leaped the Queen like a deer : — 
" O Catherine, help ! " she cried. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 99 

And low at his feet we clasped his knees 

Together side by side. 
" Oh ! even a King, for his people's sake, 

From treasonous death must hide ! " 



" For her sake most ! " I cried, and I marked 
The pang that my words could wring. 

And the iron tongs from the chimney-nook 
I snatched and held to the King : — 

" Wrench up the plank ! and the vault beneath 
Shall yield safe harboring." 

With brows low-bent, from my eager hand 

The heavy heft did he take ; 
And the plank at his feet he wrenched and tore ; 
And as he frowned through the open floor, 

Again I said, " For her sake ! " 

Then he cried to the Queen, " God's will be done ! " 
For her hands were clasped in prayer. 

And down he sprang to the inner crypt ; 

And straight we closed the plank he had ripp'd 
And toiled to smoothe it fair. 



100 THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 

(Alas ! in that vault a gap once was 

Wherethro' the King might have fled : 
But three days since close-walled had it been 
By his will ; for the ball would roll therein 
When without at the palm he play'd.) 

Then the Queen cried, " Catherine, keep the door, 

And I to this will suffice 1 " 
At her word I rose all dazed to my feet, 

And my heart was fire and ice. 



And louder ever the voices grew. 
And the tramp of men in mail ; 
Until to my brain it seemed to be 
As though I tossed on a ship at sea 
In the teeth of a crashing gale. 

Then back I flew to the rest ; and hard 

We strove with sinews knit 
To force the table against the door ; 

But we might not compass it. 

Then my wild gaze sped far down the hall 
To the place of the hearthstone-sill ; 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY, lOI 

And the Queen bent ever above the floor, 
For the plank was rising still. 

And now the rush was heard on the stair, 
And " God, what help ? " was our cry. 

And was I frenzied or was I bold ? 

I looked at each empty stanchion-hold, 
And no bar but my arm had I ! 

Like iron felt my arm, as through 

The staple I made it pass : — 
Alack ! it was flesh and bone — no more ! 
'T was Catherine Douglas sprang to the door, 

But I fell back Kate Barlass. 

With that they all thronged into the hall. 

Half dim to my failing ken ; 
And the space that was but a void before 

Was a crowd of wrathful men. 

Behind the door I had fall'n and lay. 

Yet my sense was wildly aware, 
And for all the pain of my shattered arm 

I never fainted there. 



102 • THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 

Even as I fell, my eyes were cast 
Where the King leaped down to the pit ; 

And lo ! the plank was smooth in its place, 
And the Queen stood far from it. 

And under the litters and through the bed 

And within the presses all 
The traitors sought for the King, and pierced 

The arras around the wall. 

And through the chamber they ramped and stormed 

Like lions loose in the lair. 
And scarce could trust to their very eyes, — 

For behold ! no King was there. 

k 

Then one of them seized the Queen, and cried, — 

" Now tell us, where is thy lord? " 
And he held the sharp point over her heart : 
She drooped not her eyes nor did she start, 

But she answered never a word. 

Then the sword half pierced the true true breast : 
But it was the Graeme's own son 



41 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 103 

Cried, " This is a woman, — we seek a man ! " 

And away from her girdle-zone 
He struck the point of the murderous steel ; 

And that foul deed was not done. 

And forth flowed all the throng like a sea, 

And 't was empty space once more ; 
And my eyes sought out the wounded Queen 

As I lay behind the door. 

And I said : " Dear Lady, leave me here, 

For I cannot help you now ; 
But fly while you may, and none shall reck 

Of my place here lying low." 

And she said, " My Catherine, God help thee ! " 

Then she looked to the distant floor. 
And clasping her hands, " O God help hiniy^ 

She sobbed, " for we can no more ! " 

But God He knows what help may mean, 

If it mean to live or to die ; 
And what sore sorrow and mighty moan 
On earth it may cost ere yet a throne 

Be filled in His house on high. 



I04 THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 

And now the ladies fled with the Queen ; 

And thorough the open door 
The night-wind wailed round the empty room 

And the rushes shook on the floor. 

And the bed drooped low in the dark recess 

Whence the arras was rent away j 
And the firelight still shone over the space 

Where our hidden secret lay. 

And the rain had ceased, and the moonbeams lit 

The window high in the wall, — 
Bright beams that on the plank that I knew 

Through the painted pane did fall 
And gleamed with the splendor of Scotland's crown 

And shield armorial. 

But then a great wind swept up the skies, 

And the climbing moon fell back ; 
And the royal blazon fled from the floor. 

And nought remained on its track ; 
And high in the darkened window-pane 

The shield and the crown were black. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. IO5 

And what I say next I partly saw 

And partly I heard in sooth, 
And partly since from the murderers' lips 

The torture wrung the truth. 

For now again came the armed tread, 

And fast through the hall it fell ; 
But the throng was less : and ere I saw, 

By the voice without I could tell 
That Robert Stuart had come with them 

Who knew that chamber well. 

And over the space the Graeme strode dark 

With his mantle round him flung ; 
And in his eye was a flaming light 

But not a word on his tongue. 

And Stuart held a torch to the floor, 

And he found the thing he sought ; 
And they slashed the plank away with their Swords ; 

And O God ! I fainted not ! 

And the traitor held his torch in the gap, 
All smoking and smouldering ; 



Io6 THE KING'S TRAGEDY, 

And through the vapor and fire, beneath 

In the dark crypt's narrow ring, 
With a shout that pealed to the room's high roof 

They saw their naked King. 

Half naked he stood, but stood as one 

Who yet could do and dare : 
With the crown, the King was stript away, — 
The Knight was reft of his battle-array, — 

But still the Man was there. 

From the rout then stepped a villain forth, — 

Sir John Hall was his name ; 
With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the vault 

Beneath the torchlight-flame. 

Of his person and stature was the King 

A man right manly strong. 
And mightily by the shoulder-blades 

His foe to his feet he flung. 

Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas Hall, 

Sprang down to work his worst ; 
And the King caught the second man by the neck 

And flung him above the first. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 107 

And he smote and trampled them under him j 

And a long month thence they bare 
All black their throats with the grip of his hands 

When the hangman's hand came there. 

And sore he strove to have had their knives, 
But the sharp blades gashed his hands. 

Oh James ! so armed, thou hadst battled there 
Till help had come of thy bands ; 

And oh ! once more thou hadst held our throne 
And ruled thy Scotish lands ! 

But while the King o'er his foes still raged 

With a heart that nought could tame, 
Another man sprang down to the crypt ; 
And with his sword in his hand hard-gripp'd, 

There stood Sir Robert Graeme. 



(^ow shame on the recreant traitor's heart 

Who durst not face his King 
Till the body unarmed was wearied out 

With two-fold combating ! 



I08 THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 

Ah ! well might the people sing and say, 

As oft ye have heard aright : — 
" O Robert Grceme, O Robert Grceme, 
Who slew our King, God give thee shame I ''^ 

For he slew him not as a knight.) 

And the naked Kmg turned round at bay, 
But his strength had passed the goal, 

And he could but gasp : — " Mine hour is come ; 

But oh ! to succor thine own soul's doom, 
Let a priest now shrive my soul ! " 

And the traitor looked on the King's spent strength, 
And said : — " Have I kept my word ? — 

Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave ? 

No black friar's shrift thy soul shall have. 
But the shrift of this red sword ! " 

With that he smote his King through the breast ; 

And all they three in that pen 
Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him there 

Like merciless murderous men. 

Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert Graeme, 
Ere the King's last breath was o'er. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 109 

Turned sick at heart with the deadly sight 
And would have done no more. 

But a cry came from the troop above ; — 

" If him thou do not slay, 
The price of his Hfe that thou dost spare 

Thy forfeit life shall pay ! " 

O God ! what more did I hear or see, 

Or how should I tell the rest ? 
But there at length our King lay slain 

With sixteen wounds in his breast. 

O God ! and now did a bell boom forth. 

And the murderers turned and fled ; — 
Too late, too late, O God, did it sound ! — 
And I heard the true men mustering round. 
And the cries and the coming tread. 

But ere they came, to the black death-gap 

Somewise did I creep and steal ; 
And lo ! or ever I swooned away, 
Through the dusk I saw where the white face lay 

In the Pit of Fortune's Wheel. 



no THE KINGS TRAGEDY. 

And now, ye Scotish maids who have heard 
Dread things of the days grown old, — 

Even at the last, of true Queen Jane 
May somewhat yet be told, 

And how she dealt for her dear lord's sake 
Dire vengeance manifold. 

T was in the Charterhouse of Perth, 

In the fair-ht Death-chapelle, 
That the slain King's corpse on bier was laid 

With chaunt and requiem-knell. 

And all with royal wealth of balm 

Was the body purified ; 
And none could trace on the brow and lips 

The death that he had died. 

In his robes of state he lay asleep 
With orb and sceptre in hand ; 

And by the crown he wore on his throne 
Was his kingly forehead spann'd. 

And, girls, 't was a sweet sad thing to see 
How the curling golden hair, 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY. Ill 

As in the day of the poet's youth, 

From the King's crown clustered there. 

And if all had come to pass in the brain 

That throbbed beneath those curls, 
Then Scots had said in the days to come 
That this their soil was ^ different home 

And a different Scotland, girls ! 

And the Queen sat by him night and day, 

And oft she knelt in prayer, 
All wan and pale in the widow's veil 

That shrouded her shining hair. 

And I had got good help of my hurt : 

And only to me some sign 
She made ; and save the priests that were there 

No face would she see but mine. 

And the month of March wore on apace ; 

And now fresh couriers fared 
Still from the country of the Wild Scots 

With news of the traitors snared. 



112 THE KINGS TRAGEDY, 

And still as I told her day by day, 

Her pallor changed to sight, 
And the frost grew to a furnace-flame 

That burnt her visage white. 

And evermore as I brought her word, 

She bent to her dead King James, 
And in the cold ear with fire-drawn breath 

She spoke the traitors' names. 

But when the name of Sir Robert Graeme 

Was the one she had to give, 
I ran to hold her up from the floor ; 
For the froth was on her lips, and sore 

I feared that she could not live. 

And the month of March wore nigh to its end. 
And still was the death-pall spread ; 

For she would not bury her slaughtered lord 
Till his slayers all were dead. 

And now of their dooms dread tidings came, 

And of torments fierce and dire ; 
And nought she spake,— she had ceased to speak. 

But her eyes were a soul on fire. 



THE KINGS TRAGEDY, II3 

But when I told her the bitter end 

Of the stem and just award, 
She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice three times 

She kissed the lips of her lord. 

And then she said, — " My King, they are dead ! " 

And she knelt on the chapel-floor. 
And whispered low with a strange proud smile, — 

" James, James, they suffered more ! " 

Last she stood up to her queenly height, 

But she shook like an autumn leaf, 
As though the fire wherein she burned 
Then left her body, and all were turned 

To winter of life-long grief. 

And " O James ! " she said, — " My James ! " she 
said, — 

" Alas for the woful thing. 
That a poet true and a friend of man, 
In desperate days of bale and ban. 

Should needs be born a King ! " 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 

A SONNET-SEQUENCE. 



Part I. 
YOUTH AND CHANGE. 

Part II. 
CHANGE AND FATE. 



(The present full series of The House of Life consists of son- 
nets only. It will be evident that many among those now first 
added are still the work of earlier years.) 



A Sonnet is a momenfs monument, — 

Memorial from the SouVs eternity 

To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be, 
Whether for lustral rite or dire portent, 
Of its own arduous fulness reverent: 

Carve it in ivory or in ebony, 

As Day or Night may rule; and let Time see 
Its flowering crest impearled and orient, 

A Sonnet is a coin : its face reveals 

The soul, — its converse, to what Power His due: — 
Whether for tribute to the august appeals 

Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue. 
It serve; or^ 'mid the dark wharf's cavernous breath. 
In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death. 



PART I. 

YOUTH AND CHANGE. 



SONNET I. 



LOVE ENTHRONED. 



I MARKED all kindred Powers the heart finds fair : — 
Truth, with awed lips ; and Hope, with eyes upcast ; 
And Fame, whose loud wings fan the ashen Past 

To signal-fires, Oblivion's flight to scare ; 

And Youth, with still some single golden hair 
Unto his shoulder clinging, since the last 
Embrace wherein two sweet arms held him fast ; 

And Life, still wreathing flowers for Death to wear. 

Love's throne was not with these ; but far above 
All passionate wind of welcome and farewell 

He sat in breathless bowers they dream not of; 
Though Truth foreknow Love's heart, and Hope fore- 

teU, 
And Fame be for Love's sake desirable, 

And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet to Love. 



120 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

SONNET II. 
>? BRIDAL BIRTH. 

As when desire, long darkling, dawns, and first 
The mother looks upon the newborn child. 
Even so my Lady stood at gaze and smiled 

When her soul knew at length the Love it nurs'd. 

Born with her life, creature of poignant thirst 
And exquisite hunger, at her heart Love lay 
Quickening in darkness, till a voice that day 

Cried on him, and the bonds of birth were burst. 

Now, shadowed by his wings, our faces yearn 
Together, as his fullgrown feet now range 

The grove, and his warm hands our couch prepare 
Till to his song our bodiless souls in turn 

Be bom his children, when Death's nuptial change 
Leaves us for light the halo of his hair. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 121 



SONNET III. 
^. LOVE'S TESTAMENT. 

O THOU who at Love's hour ecstatically 
Unto my heart dost ever more present, 
Clothed with his fire, thy heart his testament j 

Whom I have neared and felt thy breath to be 

The inmost incense of his sanctuary ; 

Who without speech hast owned him, and, intent 
Upon his will, thy life with mine hast blent, 

And murmured, " I am thine, thou 'rt one with me ! " 

O what from thee the grace, to me the prize, 
And what to Love the glory, — when the whole 
Of the deep stair thou tread'st to the dim shoal 
And weary water of the place of sighs. 
And there dost work deliverance, as thine eyes 
Draw up my prisoned spirit to thy soul ! 



122 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 



% 



SONNET IV. 
LOVESIGHT. 



When do I see thee most, beloved one ? 

When in the light the spirits of mine eyes 

Before thy face, their altar, solemnize 
The worship of that Love through thee made known ? 
Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,) 

Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies 

Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, 
And my soul only sees thy soul its own ? 

O love, my love ! if I no more should see 
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee. 

Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — 
How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope 
The ground- whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, 

The wind of Death's imperishable wing? 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 123 

SONNET V. 
HEART'S HOPE. 

By what word's power, the key of paths untrod, 
Shall I the difficult deeps of Love explore, 
Till parted waves of Song yield up the shore 

Even as that sea which Israel crossed dryshod? 

For lo ! in some poor rhythmic period, 
Lady, I fain would tell how evermore 
Thy soul I know not from thy body, nor 

Thee from myself, neither our love from God. 

Yea, in God's name, and Love's, and thine, would I 
Draw from one loving heart such evidence 

As to all hearts all things shall signify ; 
Tender as dawn's first hill-fire, and intense 
As instantaneous penetrating sense. 

In Spring's birth-hour, of other Springs gone by. 



124 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET VI. 
% THE KISS. 

What smouldering senses in death's sick delay 
Or seizure of malign vicissitude 
Can rob this body of honor, or denude 

This soul of wedding-raiment worn to-day ? 

For lo ! even now my lady's lips did play 
With these my lips such consonant interlude 
As laurelled Orpheus longed for when he wooed 

The half-drawn hungering face with that last lay. 

I was a child beneath her touch, — a man 

When breast to breast we clung, even I and she, ■ 
A spirit when her spirit looked through me, — 
A god when all our life-breath met to fan 
Our Hfe-blood, till love's emulous ardors ran, 
Fire within fire, desire in deity. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. I25 



SONNET VII. 
1^- SUPREME SURRENDER. 

To all the spirits of Love that wander by 
Along his love-sown harvest-field of sleep 
My lady lies apparent ; and the deep 

Calls to the deep ; and no man sees but I. 

The bliss so long afar, at length so nigh, 

Rests there attained. Methinks proud Love must weep 
When Fate's control doth from his harvest reap 

The sacred hour for which the years did sigh. 

First touched, the hand now warm around my neck 
Taught memory long to mock desire : and lo ! 
Across my breast the abandoned hair doth flow, 
Where one shorn tress long stirred the longing ache : 
And next the heart that trembled for its sake 
Lies the queen-heart in sovereign overthrow. 



126 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET VIII. 
LOVE'S LOVERS. 

Some ladies love the jewels in Love*s zone 

And gold-tipped darts he hath for painless play 
In idle scornful hours he flings away ; 

And some that listen to his lute's soft tone 

Do love to vaunt the silver praise their own ; 

Some prize his blindfold sight ; and there be they 
Who kissed his wings which brought him yesterday 

And thank his wings to-day that he is flown. 

My lady only loves the heart of Love : 
Therefore Love's heart, my lady, hath for thee 
His bower of unimagined flower and tree : 
There kneels he now, and all-anhungered of 
Thine eyes gray-lit in shadowing hair above, 
Seals with thy mouth his immortality. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 127 

SONNET IX. 
y PASSION AND WORSHIP. 

One flame-winged brought a white-winged harp-player 

Even where my lady and I lay all alone ; 

Saying : " Behold, this minstrel is unknown ; 
Bid him depart, for I am minstrel here : 
Only my strains are to Love's dear ones dear." 

Then said I : "Through thine hautboy's rapturous tone 

Unto my lady still this harp makes moan, 
And still she deems the cadence deep and clear." 

Then said my lady : "Thou art Passion of Love, 
And this Love's Worship : both he plights to me. 
Thy mastering music walks the sunlit sea ; 

But where wan water trembles in the grove 

And the wan moon is all the light thereof. 
This harp stiU makes my name its voluntary." 



128 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

SONNET X. 

% THE PORTRAIT. 

O Lord of all compassionate control, 
O Love ! let this my lady's picture glow 
Under my hand to praise her name, and show 

Even of her inner self the perfect whole : 

That he who seeks her beauty's furthest goal, 
Beyond the Ught that the sweet glances throw 
And refluent wave of the sweet smile, may know 

The very sky and sea-line of her soul. 

Lo ! it is done. Above the enthroning throat 
The mouth's mould testifies of voice and kiss, 
The shadowed eyes remember and foresee. 
Her face is made her shrine. Let all men note 
That in all years (O Love, thy gift is this !) 
They that would look on her must come to me. 



THE HOUSE OF UFE, 129 

SONNET XI. 
t^THE LOVE-LETTER. 

Warmed by her hand and shadowed by her hair 

As close she leaned and poured her heart through thee, 
Whereof the articulate throbs accompany 

The smooth black stream that makes thy whiteness fair, — 

Sweet fluttering sheet, even of her breath aware, — 
Oh let thy silent song disclose to me 
That soul wherewith her lips and eyes agree 

Like married music in Love's answering air. 

Fain had I watched her when, at some fond thought, 
Her bosom to the writing closelier press'd, 
And her breast's secrets peered into her breast ; 
When, through eyes raised an instant, her soul sought 
My soul, and from the sudden confluence caught 
The words that made her love the loveliest. 



I30 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

SONNET XII. 
THE LOVERS' WALK. 

Sweet twining hedgeflowers wind-stirred in no wise 
On this June day ; and hand that clings in hand : — 
Still glades ; and meeting faces scarcely fann'd : — 

An osier-odored stream that draws the skies 

Deep to its heart ; and mirrored eyes in eyes : — ^ 
Fresh hourly wonder o'er the Summer land 
Of light and cloud ; and two souls softly spann'd 

With one o'erarching heaven of smiles and sighs ; — 

Even such their path, whose bodies lean unto 
Each other's visible sweetness amorously, — 
Whose passionate hearts lean by Love's high decree 

Together on his heart for ever true, 

As the cloud-foaming firmamental blue 
Rests on the blue line of a foamless sea. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 131 

SONNET XIII. 
YOUTH'S ANTIPHONY. 

" I LOVE you, sweet : how can you ever learn 
How much I love you ? " « You I love even so, 
And so I learn it." " Sweet, you cannot know 

How fair you are." " If fair enough to earn 

Your love, so much is all my love's concern." 

"My love grows hourly, sweet." "Mine too doth 

grow. 
Yet love seemed full so many hours ago ! " 

Thus lovers speak, tiU kisses claim their turn. 

Ah ! happy they to whom such words as these 

In youth have served for speech the whole day long. 
Hour after hour, remote from the world's throng. 
Work, contest, fame, all life's confederate pleas,— 
What while Love breathed in sighs and silences 
Through two blent souls one rapturous undersong. 



132 THE HOUSE OF LIFE 

SONNET XIV. 
YOUTH'S SPRING-TRIBUTE. 

On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear 
I lay, and spread your hair on either side, 
And see the newborn woodflowers bashful-eyed 

Look through the golden tresses here and there. 

On these debateable borders of the year 

Spring's foot half falters ; scarce she yet may know 
The leafless blackthorn-blossom from the snow ; 

And through her bowers the wind's way still is clear. 

But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day ; 
So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss 

Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray, 
Up your warm throat to your warm lips : for this 
Is even the hour of Love's sworn suitservice, 

With whom cold hearts are counted castaway. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 133 

SONNET XV. 
\ THE BIRTH-BOND. 

Have you not noted, in some family 
Where two were bom of a first marriage-bed, 
How still they own their gracious bond, though fed 

And nursed on the forgotten breast and knee ? — 

How to their father's children they shall be 
In act and thought of on^ goodwill ; but each 
Shall for the other have, in silence speech, 

And in a word complete community ? 

Even so, when first I saw you, seemed it, love, 
That among souls allied to mine was yet 

One nearer kindred than Hfe hinted of. 

O bom with me somewhere that men forget, 
And though in years of sight and sound unmet, 

Known for my sours birth-partner well enough ! 



134 'I^HE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

SONNET XVI. 
A DAY OF LOVE. 

Those envied places which do know her well, 
And are so scornful of this lonely place, 
Even now for once are emptied of her grace : 

Nowhere but here she is : and while Love's spell 

From his predominant presence doth compel 
All alien hours, an outworn populace. 
The hours of Love fill full the echoing space 

With sweet confederate music favorable. 

Now many memories make solicitous 
The delicate love-lines of her mouth, till, lit 
With quivering fire, the words take wing fi-om it ; 

As here between our kisses we sit thus 
Speaking of things remembered, and so sit 

Speechless while things forgotten call to us. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 135 



SONNET XVII. 
BEAUTY'S PAGEANT. 

What dawn-pulse at the heart of heaven, or last 
Incarnate flower of culminating day, — 
What marshalled marvels on the skirts of May, 

Or song full-quired, sweet June's encomiast ; 

What glory of change by nature's hand amass'd 
Can vie with all those moods of varying grace 
Which o'er one loveliest woman's form and face 

Within this hour, within this room, have pass'd ? 

Love's very vesture and elect disguise 
Was each fine movement, — wonder new-begot 
Of lily or swan or swan-stemmed galiot ; 
Joy to his sight who now the sadher sighs, 
Parted again ; and sorrow yet for eyes 
Unborn, that read these words and saw her not. 



136 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET XVIII. 
GENIUS IN BEAUTY. 

Beauty like hers is genius. Not the call 
Of Homer's or of Dante's heart sublime, — 
Not Michael's hand furrowing the zones of time, — 

Is more with compassed mysteries musical ; 

Nay, not in Spring's or Summer's sweet footfall 
More gathered gifts exuberant Life bequeathes 
Than doth this sovereign face, whose love-spell breathes 

Even from its shadowed contour on the wall. 

As many men are poets in their youth. 

But for one sweet-strung soul the wires prolong 
Even through all change the indomitable song ; 
So in likewise the envenomed years, whose tooth 
Rends shallower grace with ruin void of ruth, 
Upon this beauty's power shall wreak no wrong. 






THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 137 

SONNET XIX. 
SILENT NOON. 

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, — 
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms : 
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and 
glooms 

'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. 

All round our nest, far as the eye can pass, 
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge 
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge. 

'T is visible silence, still as the hour-glass. 

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly 
Hangs like a blue tliread loosened from the sky : — 

So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above. 
Oh ! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, 
This close-companioned inarticulate hour 

When twofold silence was the song of love. 



138 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET XX. 
GRACIOUS MOONLIGHT. 

Even as the moon grows queenlier in mid- space 
When the sky darkens, and her cloud-rapt car 
Thrills with intenser radiance from afar, — 

So lambent, lady, beams thy sovereign grace 

When the drear soul desires thee. Of that face 
What shall be said, — which, hke a governing star, 
Gathers and gamers from all things that are 

Their silent penetrative loveliness ? 

O'er water-daisies and wild waifs of Spring, 

There where the iris rears its gold-crowned sheaf 
With flowering rush and sceptred arrow-leaf. 
So have I marked Queen Dian, in bright ring 
Of cloud above and wave below, take wing 

And chase night's gloom, as thou the spirit's grief. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 139 

SONNET XXI. 
LOVE-SWEETNESS. 

Sweet dimness of her loosened hair's downfall 
About thy face ; her sweet hands round thy head 
In gracious fostering union garlanded j 

Her tremulous smiles ; her glances' sweet recall 

Of love ; her murmuring sighs memorial ; 

Her mouth's culled sweetness by thy kisses shed 
On cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so led 

Back to her mouth which answers there for all : — 

What sweeter than these things, except the thing 
In lacking which all these would lose their sweet : — 
The confident heart's still fervor : the swift beat 
And soft subsidence of the spirit's wing. 
Then when it feels, in cloud-girt wayfaring, 
The breath of kindred plumes against its feet? 



140 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

SONNET XXII. 
HEART'S HAVEN. 

Sometimes she is a child within mine arms, 

Cowering beneath dark wings that love must chase, — 
With still tears showering and averted face. 

Inexplicably filled with faint alarms : 

And oft from mine own spirit's hurtling harms 
I crave the refuge of her deep embrace, — 
Against all ills the fortified strong place 

And sweet reserve of sovereign counter-charms. 

And Love, our Hght at night and shade at noon. 
Lulls us to rest with songs, and turns away 
All shafts of shelterless tumultuous day. 

Like the moon's growth, his face gleams through his tun^* ; 

And as soft waters warble to the moon, 
Our answering spirits chime one roundelay. 



\ 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 141 

SONNET XXIII. 
LOVE'S BAUBLES. 

I STOOD where Love in brimming armfuls bore 
Slight wanton flowers and fooHsh toys of fruit : 
And round him ladies thronged in warm pursuit, 

Fingered and lipped and proffered the strange store. 

And from one hand the petal and the core 

Savored of sleep ; and cluster and curled shoot 
Seemed from another hand like shame's salute, — 

Gifts that I felt my cheek was blushing for. 

At last Love bade my Lady give the same : 
And as I looked, the dew was light thereon j 
And as I took them, at her touch they shone 

With inmost heaven-hue of the heart of flame. 

And then Love said : " Lo ! when the hand is hers, 
Follies of love are love's true ministers." 



142 THE HOUSE OF LIFE- 

SONNET XXIV. 
PRIDE OF YOUTH. 

Even as a child, of sorrow that we give 
The dead, but little in his heart can find, 
Since without need of thought to his clear mind 

Their turn it is to die and his to live : — 

Even so the winged New Love smiles to receive 
Along his eddying plumes the auroral wind, 
Nor, forward glorying, casts one look behind 

Where night-rack shrouds the Old Love fugitive. 

There is a change in every hour's recall. 
And the last cowslip in the fields we see 
On the same day with the first corn-poppy. 

Alas for hourly change ! Alas for all 

The loves that from his hand proud Youth lets fall. 
Even as the beads of a told rosary ! 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 143 

SONNET XXV. 
WINGED HOURS. 

Each hour until we meet is as a bird 

That wings from far his gradual way along 
The rustling covert of my soul, — his song 

Still loudlier trilled through leaves more deeply stirr'd : 

But at the hour of meeting, a clear word 

Is every note he sings, in Love's own tongue ; 

Yet, Love, thou know'st the sweet strain suffers wrong, 

Full oft through our contending joys unheard. 

What of that hour at last, when for her sake 
No wing may fly to me nor song may flow ; 
When, wandering round my life unleaved, I know 

The bloodied feathers scattered in the brake, 
And think how she, far from me, with like eyes 

Sees through the untuneful bough the wingless skies ? 



144 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET XXVI. 
MID-EAFTURE. 

Thou lovely and beloved, thou my love ; 

Whose kiss seems still the first ; whose summoning eyes, 

Even now, as for our love-world's new sunrise, 
Shed very dawn ; whose voice, attuned above 
All modulation of the deep-bowered dove, 

Is like a hand laid softly on the soul ; 

Whose hand is like a sweet voice to control 
Those worn tired brows it hath the keeping of: — 

What word can answer to thy word, — what gaze 
To thine, which now absorbs within its sphere 
My worshipping face, till I am mirrored there 

Light-circled in a heaven of deep-drawn rays ? 
^hat clasp, what kiss mine inmost heart can prove, 
O lovely and beloved, O my love? 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, I45 



SONNET XXVII. 
HEART'S COMPASS. 

Sometimes thou seem'st not as thyself alone, 
But as the meaning of all things that are ; 
A breathless wonder, shadowing forth afar 

Some heavenly solstice hushed and halcyon ; 

Whose unstirred lips are music's visible tone ; 
Whose eyes the sun-gate of the soul unbar, 
Being of its furthest fires oracular \ — 

The evident heart of all life sown and mown. 

Even such Love is ; and is not thy name Love ? 
Yea, by thy hand the Love-god rends apart 
All gathering clouds of Night's ambiguous art ; 
Flings them far down, and sets thine eyes above j 
And simply, as some gage of flower or glove. 
Stakes with a smile the world agamst thy nean. 



146 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

SONNET XXVIII. 
SOUL-LIGHT. 

What other woman could be loved like you, 
Or how of you should love possess his fill? 
After the fulness of all rapture, still, — 

As at the end of some deep avenue 

A tender glamour of day, — there comes to view 
Far in your eyes a yet more hungering thrill, — 
Such fire as Love's soul-winnowing hands distil 

Even from his inmost ark of light and dew. 

And as the traveller triumphs with the sun. 

Glorying in heat's mid-height, yet startide brings 
Wonder new-born, and still fresh transport springs 

From limpid lambent hours of day begun ; — 

Even so, through eyes and voice, your soul doth move 
My soul with changeful light of infinite love. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 147 



SONNET XXIX. 
THE MOONSTAR. 

Lady, I thank thee for thy loveliness, 

Because my lady is more lovely still. 

Glorying I gaze, and yield with glad goodwill 
To thee thy tribute ; by whose sweet-spun dress 
Of delicate life Love labors to assess 

My lady's absolute queendom ; saying, " Lo ! 

How high this beauty is, which yet doth show 
But as that beauty's sovereign votaress." 

Lady, I saw thee with her, side by side ; 

And as, when night's fair fires their queen surround, 

An emulous star too near the moon will ride, — 
Even so thy rays within her luminous bound 
Were traced no more \ and by the light so drown 'd, 

Lady, not thou but she was glorified. 



148 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



SONNET XXX. 



LAST FIRE. 



Love, through your spirit and mine what summer eve 
Now glows with glory of all things possess 'd, 
Since this day's sun of rapture filled the west 

And the hght sweetened as the fire took leave ? 

Awhile now softher let your bosom heave, 
As in Love's harbor, even that loving breast, 
All care takes refuge while we sink to rest, 

And mutual dreams the bygone bliss retrieve. 

Many the days that Winter keeps in store, 

Sunless throughout, or whose brief sun-glimpses 
Scarce shed the heaped snow through the naked trees. 

This day at least was Summer's paramour. 

Sun-colored to the imperishable core 

With sweet well-being of love and full heart's ease. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, I49 

SONNET XXXI. 

HER GIFTS. 

High grace, the dower of queens ; and therewithal 

Some wood-bom wonder's sweet simplicity ; 

A glance like water brimming with the sky 
Or hyacinth-light where forest-shadows fall ; 
Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthral 

The heart ; a mouth whose passionate forms imply 

All music and all silence held thereby ; 
Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal ; 
A round reared neck, meet column of Love's shrine 

To cling to when the heart takes sanctuary ; 

Hands which for ever at Love's bidding be. 
And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign : — 

These are. her gifts, as tongue may tell them o'er. 

Breathe low her name, my soul ; for that means more. 



150 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET XXXII. 
EQUAL TROTH. 

Not by one measure mayst thou mete our love ; 

For how should I be loved as I love thee? — 

I, graceless, joyless, lacking absolutely 
AU gifts that with thy queenship best behove ; — 
Thou, throned in every heart's elect alcove, 

And crowned with garlands culled from every tree, 

Which for no head but thine, by Love's decree. 
All beauties and all mysteries interwove. 

But here thine eyes and hps yield soft rebuke : — 
"Then only," (say'st thou) " could I love thee less, 
When thou couldst doubt my love's equahty." 

Peace, sweet ! If not to sum but worth we look, — 
Thy heart's transcendence, not my heart's excess,— 
Then more a thousandfold thou lov'st than I. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE^. 151 



SONNET XXXIII. 

VENUS VICTRIX. 

Could Juno's self more sovereign presence wear 
Than thou, 'mid other ladies throned in grace ? — 
Or Pallas, when thou bend'st with soul-stilled face 

O'er poet's page gold-shadowed in thy hair? 

Dost thou than Venus seem less heavenly fair 
When o'er the sea of love's tumultuous trance 
Hovers thy smile, and mingles with thy glance 

That sweet voice like the last wave murmuring there ? 

Before such triune loveliness divine 

Awestruck I ask, which goddess here most claims 
The prize that, howsoe'er adjudged, is thine ? 

Then Love breathes low the sweetest of thy names ; 
And Venus Victrix to my heart doth bring 
Herself, the Helen of her guerdoning. 



152 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET XXXIV. 

THE DARK GLASS. 

Not I myself know all my love for thee : 

How should I reach so far, who cannot weigh 
To-morrow's dower by gage of yesterday? 

Shall birth and death, and all dark names that be 

As doors and windows bared to some loud sea, 

Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray ; 
And shall my sense pierce love, — the last relay 

And ultimate outpost of eternity? 

Lo ! what am I to Love, the lord of all? 

One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand, — 
One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand. 

Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest call 

And veriest touch of powers primordial 
That any hour-girt life may understand. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 153 

SONNET XXXV. 

THE LAMP'S SHRINE. 

Sometimes I fain would find in thee some fault, 
That I might love thee still in spite of it : 
Yet how should our Lord Love curiail one whit 

Thy perfect praise whom most he would exalt ? 

Alas ! he can but make my heart's low vault 
Even in men's sight unworthier, being lit 
By thee, who thereby show'st more exquisite 

Like fiery chrysoprase in deep basalt. 

Yet will I nowise shrink ; but at Love's shrine 
Myself within the beams his brow doth dart 
Will set the flashing jewel of thy heart 

In that dull chamber where it deigns to shine : 
For lo ! in honor of thine excellencies 
My heart takes pride to show how poor it is. 



154 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

SONNET XXXVI. 

LIFE-IN-LOVE. 

Not in thy body is thy life at all 

But in this lady's lips and hands and eyes ; 
Through these she yields thee life that vivifies 

What else were sorrow's servant and death's thrall. 

Look on thyself without her, and recall 

The waste remembrance and forlorn surmise 
That lived but in a dead-drawn breath of sighs 

O'er vanished hours and hours eventual. 

Even so much life hath the poor tress of hair 
Which, stored apart, is all love hath to show 
For heart-beats and for fire-heats long ago ; 

Even so much Hfe endures unknown, even where, 
'Mid change the changeless night environeth, 
Lies all that golden hair undimmed in death. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 155 

SONNET XXXVII. 

THE LOVE-MOON. 

" When that dead face, bowered in the furthest years, 
Which once was all the life years held for thee, 
Can now scarce bid the tides of memory 

Cast on thy soul a little spray of tears, — 

How canst thou gaze into these eyes of hers 
Whom now thy heart delights in, and not see 
Within each orb Love's philtred euphrasy 

Make them of buried troth remembrancers ? " 

" Nay, pitiful Love, nay, loving Pity ! Well 

Thou knowest that in these twain I have confess'd 

Two very voices of thy summoning bell. 

Nay, Master, shall not Death make manifest 

In these the culminant changes which approve 

The love-moon that must light my soul to Love ? '* 



156 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 



SONNET XXXVIII. 

THE MORROW'S MESSAGE. 

" Thou Ghost," I said, " and is thy name To-day? — 
Yesterday's son, with such an abject brow ! — 
And can To-morrow be more pale than thou ? " 

While yet I spoke, the silence answered : " Yea, 

Henceforth our issue is all grieved and gray, 
And each beforehand makes such poor avow 
As of old leaves beneath the budding bough 

Or night-drift that the sundawn shreds away." 

Then cried I : " Mother of many malisons, 
O Earth, receive me to thy dusty bed ! " 
But therewithal the tremulous silence said : 
" Lo ! Love yet bids thy lady greet thee once : — 
Yea, twice, — whereby thy life is still the sun's ; 
And thrice, — whereby the shadow of death is dead." 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 1 57 

SONNET XXXIX. 
SLEEPLESS DREAMS. 

Girt in dark growths, yet glimmering with one star, 

O night desirous as the nights of youth ! 

Why should my heart within thy spell, forsooth, 
Now beat, as the bride's finger-pulses are 
Quickened within the girdling golden bar? 

What wings are these that fan my pillow smooth? 

And why does Sleep, waved back by Joy and Ruth, 
Tread softly round and gaze at me from far ? 

Nay, night deep-leaved ! And would Love feign in thee 
Some shadowy palpitating grove that bears 
Rest for man's eyes and music for his ears ? 

O lonely night ! art thou not known to me, 

A thicket hung with masks of mockery 
And watered with the wasteful warmth of tears? 



158 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET XL. 
SEVERED SELVES. 

Two separate divided silences, 

Which, brought together, would find loving voice ; 

Two glances which together would rejoice 
In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees ; 
Two hands apart whose touch alone gives ease ; 

Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame, 

Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same ; 
Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas : — 

Such are we now. Ah ! may our hope forecast 

Indeed one hour again, when on this stream 

Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam ? — 

An hour how slow to come, how quickly past, — 

Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last, 

Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 159 

SONNET XLI. 

THROUGH DEATH TO LOVE. 

Like labor-laden moonclouds faint to flee 

From winds that sweep the winter-bitten wold, — 
Like multiform circumfluence manifold 

Of night's flood-tide, — like terrors that agree 

Of hoarse-tongued fire and inarticulate sea, — 

Even such, within some glass dimmed by our breath. 
Our hearts discern wild images of Death, 

Shadows and shoals that edge eternity. 

Howbeit athwart Death's imminent shade doth soar 
One Power, than flow of s.tream or flight of dove 
Sweeter to glide around, to brood above. 
Tell me, my heart, — what angel-greeted door 
Or threshold of wing-winnowed threshing-floor 
Hath guest fire-fledged as thine, whose lord is Lo\ ' 



l60 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET XLII. 
HOPE OVERTAKEN. 

I DEEMED thy garments, O my Hope, were gray, 
So far I viewed thee. Now the space between 
Is passed at length ; and garmented in green 

Even as in days of yore thou stand'st to-day. 

Ah God ! and but for lingering dull dismay, 
On all that road our footsteps erst had been 
Even thus commingled, and our shadows seen 

Blent on the hedgerows and the water-way. 

O Hope of mine whose eyes are living love, 

No eyes but hers, — O Love and Hope the same ! 
Lean close to me, for now the sinking sun 
That warmed our feet scarce gilds our hair above. 
O hers thy voice and very hers thy name ! 
Alas, cling round me, for the day is done ! 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. l6l 

SONNET XLIII. 

LOVE AND HOPE. 

Bless love and hope. Full many a withered year 
Whirled past us, eddying to its chill doomsday ; 
And clasped together where the blown leaves lay, 

We long have knelt and wept full many a tear. 

Yet lo ! one hour at last, the Spring's compeer, 
Flutes softly to us from some green byeway : 
Those years, those tears are dead, but only they : — 

Bless love and hope, true soul ; for we are here. 

Cling heart to heart : nor of this hour demand 
Whether in very truth, when we are dead. 
Our hearts shall wake to know Love's golden head 

Sole sunshine of the imperishable land ; 

Or but discern, through night's unfeatured scope. 
Scorn-fired at length the illusive eyes of Hope. 



l62 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



SONNET XLIV. 
CLOUD AND WIND. 

Love, should I fear death most for you or me ? 
Yet if you die, can I not follow you, 
Forcing the straits of change ? Alas ! but who 

Shall wrest a bond from night's inveteracy. 

Ere yet my hazardous soul put forth, to be 

Her warrant against all her haste might rue ? — 
Ah ! in your eyes so reached what dumb adieu, 

What unsunned gyres of waste eternity ? 

And if I die the first, shall death be then 

A lampless watchtower whence I see you weep ? — 
Or (woe is me !) a bed wherein my sleep 
Ne'er notes (as death's dear cup at last you drain), 
The hour when you too learn that all is vain 

And that Hope sows what Love shall never reap ? 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 1 63 

SONNET XLV. 
SECRET PARTING. 

Because our talk was of the cloud-control 

And moon- track of the journeying face of Fate, 
Her tremulous kisses faltered at love's gate 

And her eyes dreamed against a distant goal : 

But soon, remembering her how brief the whole 
Of joy, which its own hours annihilate, 
Her set gaze gathered, thirstier than of late, 

And as she kissed, her mouth became her soul. 

Thence in what ways we wandered, and how strove 
To build with fire-tried vows the piteous home 
Which memory haunts and whither sleep may roam, — 

They only know for whom the roof of Love 

Is the still-seated secret of the grove, 

Nor spire may rise nor bell be heard therefrom. 



1 64 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET XLVI. 

PARTED LOVE. 

What shall be said of this embattled day 
And armed occupation of this night 
By all thy foes beleaguered, — now when sight 

Nor sound denotes the loved one far away? 

Of these thy vanquished hours what shalt thou say, — 
As every sense to which she dealt delight 
Now labors lonely o'er the stark noon-height 

To reach the sunset's desolate disarray? 

Stand still, fond fettered wretch ! while Memory's art 
Parades the Past before thy face, and lures 
Thy spirit to her passionate portraitures : 
TiU the tempestuous tide-gates flung apart 
Flood with wild will the hollows of thy heart, 
And thy heart rends thee, and thy body endures. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 165 



SONNET XLVII. 

BROKEN MUSIC. 

The mother will not turn, who thinks she hears 
Her nursling's speech first grow articulate j 
But breathless with averted eyes elate 

She sits, with open lips and open ears, 

That it may call her twice. 'Mid doubts and fears 
Thus oft my soul has hearkened ; till the song, 
A central moan for days, at length found tongue, 

And the sweet music welled and the sweet tears. 

But now, whatever while the soul is fain 
To list that wonted murmur, as it were 

The speech-bound sea-shell's low importunate strain, 
No breath of song, thy voice alone is there, 

O bitterly beloved ! and all her gain 
Is but the pang of unpermitted prayer. 



1 66 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



SONNET XLVm. 

DEATH-IN-LOVE. 

There came an image in Life's retinue 

That had Love's wings and bore his gonfalon : 
Fair was the web, and nobly wrought thereon, 

O soul-sequestered face, thy form and hue ! 

Bewildering sounds, such as Spring wakens to, 

Shook in its folds ; and through my heart its power 
Sped trackless as the immemorable hour 

When birth's dark portal groaned and all was new. 

But a veiled woman followed, and she caught 
The banner round its staff, to furl and cling, — 
Then plucked a feather from the bearer's wing, 

And held it to his lips that stirred it not. 

And said to me, " Behold, there is no breath : 
I and this Love are one, and I am Death." 



I 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 167 

SONNETS XLIX., L., LI., LII. 

WILLOWWOOD. 



I SAT with Love upon a woodside well, 

Leaning across the water, I and he ; 

Nor ever did he speak nor looked at me, 
But touched his lute wherein was audible 
The certain secret thing he had to tell : 

Only our mirrored eyes met silently 

In the low wave ; and that sound came to be 
The passionate voice I knew ; and my tears fell. 

And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew hers ; 
And with his foot and with his wing-feathers 

He swept the spring that watered my heart's drouth. 
Then the dark ripples spread to waving hair, 
And as I stooped, her own lips rising there 

Bubbled with brimming kisses at my mouth. 



i68 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



IL 



And now Love sang : but his was such a song, 
So meshed with half-remembrance hard to free, 
As souls disused in death's sterility 

May sing when the new birthday tarries long. 

And I was made aware of a dumb throng 
That stood aloof, one form by every tree, 
All mournful forms, for each was I or she, 

The shades of those our days that had no tongue. 



They looked on us, and knew us and were known ; 
While fast together, alive from the abyss, 
Clung the soul-wrung implacable close kiss ; 
And pity of self through all made broken moan 
Which said, " For once, for once, for once alone ! " 
And still Love sang, and what he sang was this : - 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 169 



III. 



" O YE, all ye that walk in Willowwood, 

That walk with hollow faces burning white ; 
What fathom-depth of soul-struck widowhood, 

What long, what longer hours, one hfelong night, 
Ere ye again, who so in vain have wooed 

Your last hope lost, who so in vain invite 
Your lips to that their unforgotten food. 

Ere ye, ere ye again shall see the light ! 

Alas ! the bitter banks in Willowwood, 

With tear-spurge wan, with blood-wort burning red 
Alas ! if ever such a pillow could 

Steep deep the soul in sleep till she were dead, — 
Better all life forget her than this thing. 
That Willowwood should hold her wandering ! '* 



170 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



IV. 



So sang he : and as meeting rose and rose 
Together cling through the wind's wellaway 
Nor change at once, yet near the end of day 

The leaves drop loosened where the heart-stain glows, 

So when the song died did the kiss unclose ; 

And her face fell back drowned, and was as gray 
As its gray eyes ; and if it ever may 

Meet mine again I know not if Love knows. 

Only I know that I leaned low and drank 

A long draught from the water where she sank. 

Her breath and all her tears and all her soul : 
And as I leaned, I know I felt Love's face 
Pressed on my neck with moan of pity and grace, 

Till both our heads were in his aureole. 



41 



t 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. IJI 

SONNET LIII. 
WITHOUT HER. 

What of her glass without her? The blank gray 
There where the pool is blind of the moon's face, 
trer dress without her ? The tossed empty space 

Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away. 

Her paths without her ? Day's appointed sway 
Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place 
Without her ? Tears, ah me ! for love's good grace, 

And cold forgetfulness of night or day. 

What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart, 
Of thee what word remains ere speech be still? 
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill, 
Steep ways and weary, without her thou art. 
Where the long cloud, the long wood's counterpart. 
Sheds doubled darkness up the laboring hill. 



172 THE HOUSE OF UFE, 

SONNET LIV. 
LOVE'S FATALITY. 

Sweet Love, — but oh ! most dread Desire of Love 
Life-thwarted. Linked in g)rves I saw them stand, 
Love shackled with Vain-longing, hand to hand : 

And one was eyed as the blue vault above : 

But hope tempestuous like a fire-cloud hove 
I' the other's gaze, even as in his whose wand 
Vainly all night with spell-wrought power has spann'd 

The unyielding caves of some deep treasure-trove. 

Also his lips, two wTithen flakes of flame. 

Made moan : " Alas O Love, thus leashed with me ! 
Wing-footed thou, wing-shouldered, once bom free : 
And I, thy cowering self, in chains grown tame, — 
Bound to thy body and soul, named with thy name, — 
Life's iron heart, even Love's Fatality." 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. i;3 

SONNET LV. 

STILLBORN LOVE. 

The hour which might have been yet might not be, 
Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore 
Yet whereof life was barren, — on what shore 

Bides it the breaking of Time's weary sea? 

Bondchild of all consummate joys set free, 

It somewhere sighs and serves, and mute before 
The house of Love, hears through the echoing door 

His hours elect in choral consonancy. 

But lo ! what wedded souls now hand in hand 
Together tread at last the immortal strand 

With eyes where burning memory lights love home ? 
Lo ! how the little outcast hour has turned 
And leaped to them and in their faces yearned : — 

" I am your child : O parents, ye have come ! " 



174 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 



SONNETS LVL, LVIL, LVIII. 



TRUE WOMAN. 



I. HERSELF. 



To be a sweetness more desired than Spring ; 

A bodily beauty more acceptable 

Than the wild rose-tree's arch that crowns the fell ; 
To be an essence more environing 
Than wine's drained juice ; a music ravishing 

More than the passionate pulse of Philomel ; — 

To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's swell 
That is the flower of life : — how strange a thing ! 

How strange a thing to be what Man can know 
But as a sacred secret ! Heaven's own screen 

Hides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow ; 
Closely withheld, as all things most unseen, — 
The wave-bowered pearl, — the heart-shaped seal of 
green 

That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 1 75 



I 



n. HER LOVE. 

She loves him ; for her infinite soul is Love, 
And he her lodestar. Passion in her is 
A glass facing his fire, where the bright bliss 

Is mirrored, and the heat returned. Yet move 

That glass, a stranger's amorous flame to prove, 
And it shall turn, by instant contraries. 
Ice to the moon ; while her pure fire to his 

For whom it burns, clings close i' the heart's alcove. 

Lo ! they are one. With wifely breast to breast 
And circling arms, she welcomes all command 
Of love, — her soul to answering ardors fann'd : 
Yet as morn springs or twilight sinks to rest, 
Ah ! who shall say she deems not loveKest 
The hour of sisterly sweet hand-in-hand? 



176 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 



m. HER HEAVEN. 

If to grow old in Heaven is to grow young, 
(As the Seer saw and said,) then blest were he 
With youth for evermore, whose heaven should be 

True Woman, she whom these weak notes have sung. 

Here and hereafter, — choir-strains of her tongue, — 
Sky-spaces of her eyes, — sweet signs that flee 
About her soul's immediate sanctuary, — 

Were Paradise all uttermost worlds among. 



The sunrise blooms and withers on the hill 
Like any hillflower ; and the noblest troth 
Dies here to dust. Yet shall Heaven's promise clothe 

Even yet those lovers who have cherished still 
This test for love : — in every kiss sealed fast 
To feel the first kiss and forbode the last. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 177 



SONNET LIX. 
LOVE'S LAST GIFT. 

Love to his singer held a glistening leaf, 
And said : " The rose-tree and the apple-tree 
Have fruits to vaunt or flowers to lure the bee j 

And golden shafts are in the feathered sheaf 

Of the great harvest-marshal, the year's chief. 
Victorious Summer ; aye, and 'neath warm sea 
Strange secret grasses lurk inviolably 

Between the filtering channels of sunk reef. 

All are my blooms ; and all sweet blooms of love 
To thee I gave while Spring and Summer sang ; 
But Autumn stops to listen, with some pang 

From those worse things the wind is moaning of. 
Only this laurel dreads no winter days : 
Take my last gift ; thy heart hath sung my praise." 



PART 11. 

CHANGE AND FATE. 

SONNET LX. 

TRANSFIGURED LIFE. 

As growth of form or momentary glance 
In a child's features will recall to mind 
The father's with the mother's face combin'd, — 

Sweet interchange that memories still enhance : 

And yet, as childhood's years and youth's advance, 
The gradual mouldings leave one stamp behind, 
Till in the blended likeness now we find 

A separate man's or woman's countenance : — 

So in the Song, the singer's Joy and Pain, 

Its very parents, evermore expand 
To bid the passion's fullgrown birth remain, 

By Art's transfiguring essence subtly spann'd ; 

And from that song-cloud shaped as a man's hand 
There comes the sound as of abundant rain. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. i/9 

SONNET LXI. 

THE SONG-THROE. 

By thine own tears thy song must tears beget, 
O Singer ! Magic mirror thou hast none 
Except thy manifest heart j and save thine own 

Anguish or ardor, else no amulet. 

Cisterned in Pride, verse is the feathery jet 
Of soulless air-flung fountains \ nay, more dry 
Than the Dead Sea for throats that thirst and sigh, 

That song o'er which no singer's Hds grew wet. 

The Song-god — He the Sun-god — is no slave 
Of thine : thy Hunter he, who for thy soul 
Fledges his shaft : to no august control 

Of thy skilled hand his quivered store he gave : 
But if thy hps' loud cry leap to his smart, 
The inspir'd recoil shall pierce thy brother's hearts 



8o 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 



SONNET LXII. 



THE SOUL'S SPHERE. 



Some prisoned moon in steep cloud-fastnesses, — 

Throned queen and thralled; some dying sun whose 

pyre 
Blazed with momentous memorable fire ; — 

Who hath not yearned and fed his heart with these ? 

Who, sleepless, hath not anguished to appease 
Tragical shadow's realm of sound and sight 
Conjectured in the lamentable night? 

Lo ! the soul's sphere of infinite images ! 



What sense shall count them ? Whether it forecast 
The rose-winged hours that flutter in the van 
Of Love's unquestioning unrevealed span, — 

Visions of golden futures : or that last 

Wild pageant of the accumulated past 

That clangs and flashes for a drowning man. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. l8l 

SONNET LXIII. 

INCLUSIVENESS. 

The changing guests, each in a different mood, 

Sit at the roadside table and arise : 

And every life among them in likewise 
Is a soul's board set daily with new food. 
What man has bent o'er his son's sleep, to brood 

How that face shall watch his when cold it lies ? — 

Or thought, as his own mother kissed his eyes, 
Of what her kiss was when his father wooed ? 

May not this ancient room thou sit'st in dwell 
In separate living souls for joy or pain ? 
Nay, all its comers may be painted plain 

Where Heaven shows pictures of some life spent well ; 
And may be stamped, a memory all in vain, 

Upon the sight of hdless eyes in Hell. 



l82 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



SONNET LXIV. 

ARDOR AND MEMORY. 

The cuckoo-throb, the heartbeat of the Spring ; 
The rosebud's blush that leaves it as it grows 
Into the full-eyed fair unblushing rose ; 

The summer clouds that visit every wing 

With fires of sunrise and of sunsetting ; 

The furtive flickering streams to light re-bom 
'Mid airs new-fledged and valorous lusts of mom, 

While ah the daughters of the daybreak sing : — 



These ardor loves, and memory : and when flown 
All joys, and through dark forest-boughs in flight 
The wind swoops onward brandishing the light, 
Even yet the rose-tree's verdure left alone 
Will flush all ruddy though the rose be gone ; 
With ditties and with dirges infinite. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 183 



SONNET LXV. 



KNOWN IN VAIN. 



As two whose love, first foolish, widening scope, 
Knows suddenly, to music high and soft, 
The Holy of holies ; who because they scoff d 

Are now amazed with shame, nor dare to cope 

With the whole truth aloud, lest heaven should ope ; 
Yet, at their meetings, laugh not as they laugh'd 
In speech ; nor speak, at length ; but sitting oft 

Together, within hopeless sight of hope 

For hours are silent : — So it happeneth 

When Work and Will awake too late, to gaze 

After their life sailed by, and hold their breath. 

Ah ! who shall dare to search through what sad maze 
Thenceforth their incommunicable ways 

Follow the desultory feet of Death ? 



1 84 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



SONNET LXVI. 

THE HEART OF THE NIGHT. 

From child to youth ; from youth to arduous man ; 

From lethargy to fever of the heart ; 

From faithful life to dream-dowered days apart ; 
From trust to doubt j from doubt to brink of ban j • 
Thus much of change in one swift cycle ran 

Till now. Alas, the soul ! — how soon must she 

Accept her primal immortality, — 
The flesh resume its dust whence it began ? 



O Lord of work and peace ! O Lord of life ! 
O Lord, the awful Lord of will ! though late, 
Even yet renew this soul with duteous breath : 

That when the peace is garnered in from strife, 
The work retrieved, the will regenerate, 
This soul may see thy face, O Lord of death ! 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 1 85 

SONNET LXVII. 

THE LANDMARK. 

Was that the landmark? What, — the foolish well 
Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to drink, 
But sat and flung the pebbles from its brink 

In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell, 

(And mine own image, had I noted well !) — 
Was that my point of turning ? — I had thought 
The stations of my course should rise unsought. 

As altar-stone or ensigned citadel. 

But lo ! the path is missed, I must go back. 

And thirst to drink when next I reach the spring 

Which once I stained, which since may have grown blacl 
Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing 
As here I turn, I '11 thank God, hastening, 

That the same goal is still on the same track. 



1 86 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

SONNET LXVIII. 
A DARK DAY. 

The gloom that breathes upon me with these airs 
Is like the drops which strike the traveller's brow 
Who knows not, darkling, if they bring him now 

Fresh storm, or be old rain the covert bears. 

Ah ! bodes this hour some harvest of new tares, 
Or hath but memory of the day whose plough 
Sowed hunger once,— the night at length when thou, 

O prayer found vain, didst fall from out my prayers ? 

How prickly were the growths which yet how smooth, 
Along the hedgerows of this journey shed. 

Lie by Time's grace till night and sleep may soothe ! 
Even as the thistledown from pathsides dead 

Gleaned by a girl in autumns of her youth. 

Which one new year makes soft her marriage-bed. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 1 8/ 



SONNET LXIX. 



AUTUMN IDLENESS. 



This sunlight shames November where he grieves 
In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun 
The day, though bough with bough be over-run. 

But with a blessing every glade receives 

High salutation ; while from hillock-eaves 

The deer gaze calling, dappled white and dun, 
As if, being foresters of old, the sun 

Had marked them with the shade of forest- leaves. 

Here dawn to-day unveiled her magic glass ; 

Here noon now gives the thirst and takes the dew j 
Till eve bring rest when other good things pass. 

And, here the lost hours the lost hours renew 
While I still lead my shadow o'er the grass. 

Nor know, for longing, that which I should do. 



1 88 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

SONNET LXX. 

THE HILL SUMMIT. 

TfflS feast-day of the sun, his altar there 

In the broad west has blazed for vesper-song ; 
And I have loitered in the vale too long 

And gaze now a belated worshipper. 

Yet may I not forget that I was 'ware, 
So journeying, of his face at intervals 
Transfigured where the fringed horizon falls, — 

A fiery bush with coruscating hair. 

And now that I have climbed and won this height, 
I must tread downward through the sloping shade 

And travel the bewildered tracks till night. 
Yet for this hour I still may here be stayed 
And see the gold air and the silver fade 

And the last bird fly into the last fight. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 189 

SONNETS LXXI., LXXIL, LXXIII. 

THE CHOICE. 



Eat thou and drink ; to-morrow thou shalt die. 

Surely the earth, that 's wise being very old, 

Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, and hold 
Thy sultry hair up from my face ; that I 
May pour for thee this golden wine, brim-high, 

Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold. 

We '11 drown all hours : thy song, while hours are toU'd, 
Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky. 

Now kiss, and think that there are really those, 
My own high-bosomed beauty, who increase 

Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way ! 
Through many years they toil ; then on a day 
They die not, — for their life was death, — but cease ; 
And round their narrow lips the mould falls close. 



1 90 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 






II. 



Watch thou and fear ; to-morrow thou shalt die. 

Or art thou sure thou shalt have time for death ? 

Is not the day which God's word promiseth 
To come man knows not when ? In yonder sky, 
Now while we speak, the sun speeds forth : can I 

Or thou assure him of his goal ? God's breath 

Even at this moment haply quickeneth 
The air to a flame ; till spirits, always nigh 
Though screened and hid, shall walk the daylight here. 

And dost thou prate of all that man shall do ? 
Canst thou, who hast but plagues, presume to be 
Glad in his gladness that comes after thee ? 

Will his strength slay thy worm in Hell ? Go to : 
Cover thy countenance, and watch, and fear. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 191 



III. 



Think thou and act ; to-morrow thou shalt die. 
Outstretched in the sun's warmth upon the shore, 
Thou say'st : " Man's measured path is all gone o'er : 

Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh, 

Man clomb until he touched the truth ; and I, 
Even I, am he whom it was destined for." 
How should this be ? Art thou then so much more 

Than they who sowed, that thou shouldst reap thereby ? 

Nay, come up hither. From this wave-washed mound 
Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me ; 

Then reach on with thy thought till it be drown'd. 
Miles and miles distant though the last line be, 

And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues beyond, — 
Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there is more sea. 



192 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNETS LXXIV., LXXV., LXXVI. 
OLD AND NEW ART. 

I. St. Luke the Painter. 

Give honor unto Luke Evangelist ; 

For he it was (the aged legends say) 

Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray. 
Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist 
Of devious symbols : but soon having wist 

How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day 

Are symbols also in some deeper way, 
She looked through these to God and was God's priest. 

And if, past noon, her toil began to irk. 

And she sought talismans, and turned in vain 
To soulless self-reflections of man's skill, — 
Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still 
Kneel in the latter grass to pray again. 
Ere the night cometh and she may not work. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 193 



II. Not as These. 

" I AM not as these are," the poet saith 

In youth's pride, and the pamter, among men 
At bay, where never pencil comes nor pen, 

And shut about with his own frozen breath. 

To others, for whom only rhyme wins faith 
As poets, — only paint as painters, — then 
He turns in the cold silence ; and again 

Shrinking, " I am not as these are," he saith. 

And say that this is so, what follows it ? 

For were thine eyes set backwards in thine head, 
Such words were well ; but they see on, and far. 
(Into the lights of the great Past, new-lit 
Fair for the Future's track, look thou instead, — 
Say thou instead, " I am not as these are." 



194 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



III. The Husbandmen. 

Though God, as one that is an householder, 
Called these to labor in his vineyard first, 
Before the husk of darkness was well burst 

Bidding them grope their way out and bestir, 

(Who, questioned of their wages, answered, " Sir, 
Unto each man a penny : ") though the worst 
Burthen of heat was theirs and the dry thirst : 

Though God hath since found none such as these wer». 

To do their work like them : — Because of this 
Stand not ye idle in the market-place. 
Which of ye knoweth he is not that last 

Who may be first by faith and will? — yea, his 
The hand which after the appointed days 
And hours shall give a Future to their Past? 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 1 95 

SONNET LXXVII. 

SOUL'S BEAUTY. 

Under the arch of Life, where love and death, 
Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw 
Beauty enthroned ; and though her gaze struck awe, 

I drew it in as simply as my breath. 

Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath. 

The sky and sea bend on thee, — which can draw, 
By sea or sky or woman, to one law. 

The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath. 

This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise 

Thy voice and hand shake still, — long known to thee 
By flying hair and fluttering hem, — the beat 
Following her daily of thy heart and feet. 
How passionately and irretrievably. 
In what fond flight, how many ways and days ! 



196 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET LXXVIII. 

BODY'S BEAUTY. 

Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told 

(The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,) 

That, ere the snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive, 

And her enchanted hair was the first gold. 

And still she sits, young while the earth is old, 
And, subtly of herself contemplative. 
Draws men to watch the bright web she can weave, 

Till heart and body and life are in its hold. 

The rose and poppy are her flowers ; for where 
Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent 

And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare ? 
Lo ! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went 
Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent 

And round his heart one strangling golden hair. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. IQ/ 



SONNET LXXIX. 

THE MONOCHORD. 

Is it this sky's vast vault or ocean's sound 

That is Life's self and draws my life from me, 
And by instinct ineffable decree 

Holds my breath quailing on the bitter bound ? 

Nay, is it Life or Death, thus thunder-crown'd, 
That 'mid the tide of all emergency 
Now notes my separate wave, and to what sea 

Its difficult eddies labor in the ground ? 

Oh ! what is this that knows the road I came, 

The flame turned cloud, the cloud returned to flame, 

The hfted shifted steeps and all the way? — 
That draws round me at last this wind-warm space, 
And in regenerate rapture turns my face 

Upon the devious coverts of dismay? 



193 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 



SONNET LXXX. 

FROM DAWN TO NOON. 

As the child knows not if his mother's face 
Be fair ; nor of his elders yet can deem 
What each most is ; but as of hill or stream 

At dawn, all glimmering life surrounds his place : 

Who yet, tow'rd noon of his half- weary race, 
Pausing awhile beneath the high sun-beam 
And gazing steadily back, — as through a dream, 

In things long past new features now can trace : — 

Even so the thought that is at length fullgrown 
Turns back to note the sun-smit paths, all gray 

And marvellous once, where first it walked alone ; 
And haply doubts, amid the unblenching day. 
Which most or least impelled its onward way, — 

Those unknown things or these things overknown. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 199 



SONNET LXXXI. 



MEMORIAL THRESHOLDS. 

What place so strange, — though unrevealed snow 

With unimaginable fires arise 

At the earth's end, — what passion of surprise 
Like frost-bound fire-girt scenes of long ago ? 
Lo ! this is none but I this hour ; and lo ! 

This is the very place which to mine eyes 

Those mortal hours in vain immortalize, 
'Mid hurrying crowds, with what alone I know. 

City, of thine a single simple door, 

By some new Power reduplicate, must be 
Even yet my hfe-porch in eternity, 
Even with one presence filled, as once of yore : 
Or mocking winds whirl round a chaff-strown floor 
Thee and thy years and these my words and me. 



200 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



SONNET LXXXII. 



HOARDED JOY. 

I SAID : " Nay, pluck not, — let the first finit be : 
Even as thou sayest, it is sweet and red, 
But let it ripen still. The tree's bent head 

Sees in the stream its own fecundity 

And bides the day of fulness. Shall not we 
At the sun's hour that day possess the shade. 
And claim our fruit before its ripeness fade. 

And eat it from the branch and praise the tree ? " 

I say : " Alas ! our fruit hath wooed the sun 
Too long, — 't is fallen and floats adown the stream. 

Lo, the last clusters ! Pluck them every one. 
And let us sup with summer ; ere the gleam 

Of autumn set the year's pent sorrow free, 

And the woods wail like echoes from the sea." 



t 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 201 



SONNET LXXXIII. 
BARREN SPRING. 

Once more the changed year's turning wheel returns : 
And as a girl sails balanced in the wind, 
And now before and now again behind 

Stoops as it swoops, with cheek that laughs and bums, 

So Spring comes merry towards me here, but earns 
No answering smile from me, whose life is twin'd 
With the dead boughs that winter still must bind, 

And whom to-day the Spring no more concerns. 

Behold, this crocus is a withering flame ; 

This snowdrop, snow ; this apple-blossom's part 
To breed the fruit that breeds the serpent's art. 

Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them 

Nor stay till on the year's last lily- stem 
The white cup shrivels round the golden heart. 



202 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



SONNET LXXXIV. 

FAREWELL TO THE GLEN. 

Sweet stream-fed glen, why say " farewell " to thee 
Who far'st so well and find'st for ever smooth 
The brow of Time where man may read no ruth ? 

Nay, do thou rather say " farewell " to me, 

Who now fare forth in bitterer fantasy 

Than erst was mine where other shade might soothe 
By other streams, what while in fragrant youth 

The bhss of being sad made melancholy. 



And yet, farewell ! For better shalt thou fare 
When children bathe sweet faces in thy flow 

And happy lovers blend sweet shadows there 
In hours to come, than when an hour ago 

Thine echoes had but one man's sighs to bear 
And thy trees whispered what he feared to know. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 203 

SONNET LXXXV. 

VAIN VIRTUES. 

What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell? 
None of the sins, — but this and that fair deed 
Which a soul's sin at length could supersede. 

These yet are virgins, whom death's timely knell 

Might once have sainted ; whom the fiends compel 
Together now, in snake-bound shuddering sheaves 
Of anguish, while the pit's pollution leaves 

Their refuse maidenhood abominable. 

Night sucks them down, the tribute of the pit, 
Whose names, half entered in the book of Life, 
Were God's desire at noon. And as their hair 
And eyes sink last, the Torturer deigns no whit 
To gaze, but, yearning, waits his destined wife, 
The Sin still blithe on earth that sent them there. 



204 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 

SONNET LXXXVI. 
LOST DAYS. 

The lost days of my life until to-day, 

What were they, could I see them on the street 
Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears of wheat 

Sown once for food but trodden into clay ? 

Or golden coins squandered and stiU to pay? 
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet ? 
Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat 

The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway ? 

I do not see them here ; but after death 
God knows I know the faces I shall see, 

Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. 
" I am thyself, — what hast thou done to me ? " 

"And I — and I — thyself," (lo ! each one saith,) 
" And thou thyself to all eternity ! " 






I 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 205 

SONNET LXXXVII. 

DEATH'S SONGSTERS. 

When first that horse, within whose populous womb 
The birth was death, o'ershadowed Troy with fate. 
Her elders, dubious of its Grecian freight, 

Brought Helen there to sing the songs of home ; 

She whispered, " Friends, I am alone ; come, come ! " 
Then, crouched within, Ulysses waxed afraid, 
And on his comrades' quivering mouths he laid 

His hands, and held them till the voice was dumb. 

The same was he who, lashed to his own mast, 

There where the sea-flowers screen the charnel-caves, 

Beside the sirens' singing island pass'd, 

Till sweetness failed along the inveterate waves. . , . 

Say, soul, — are songs of Death no heaven to thee, 

Nor shames her lip the cheek of Victory ? 



2o6 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



SONNET LXXXVIII. 



HERO'S LAMP. 



That lamp thou fiU'st in Eros' name to-night, 

O Hero, shall the Sestian augurs take 

To-morrow, and for drowned Leander's sake 
To Anteros its fireless lip shall plight. 
Aye, waft the unspoken vow : yet dawn's first light 

On ebbing storm and life twice ebb'd must break ; 

While 'neath no sunrise, by the Avemian Lake, 
Lo where Love walks. Death's pallid neophyte. 

That lamp within Anteros' shadowy shrine 
Shall stand unlit (for so the gods decree) 
Till some one man the happy issue see 
Of a life's love, and bid its flame to shine : 
Which still may rest unfir'd ; for, theirs or thine, 
O brother, what brought love to them or thee ? 

1 After the deaths of Leander and of Hero, the signal-lamp was 
dedicated to Anteros, with the edict that no man should light it 
unless his love had proved fortunate. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 20/ 

SONNET LXXXIX. 

THE TREES OF THE GARDEN. 

Ye who have passed Death's haggard hills ; and ye 
Whom trees that knew your sires shall cease to know 
And still stand silent : — is it all a show, — 

A wisp that laughs upon the wall ? — decree 

Of some inexorable supremacy 

Which ever, as man strains his blind surmise 
From depth to ominous depth, looks past his eyes, 

Sphinx-faced with unabashed augury ? 

Nay, rather question the Earth's self. Invoke 
The storm-felled forest-trees moss-grown to-day 
Whose roots are hillocks where the children play ; 

Or ask the silver sapling 'neath what yoke 

Those stars, his spray-crown's clustering gems, shall 

wage 
Their journey still when his boughs shrink with age. 



208 THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 

SONNET XC. 
*^ RETRO ME, SATHANA!" 

^ 

Get thee behind me. Even as, heavy-curled, 
Stooping against the wind, a charioteer 
Is snatched from out his chariot by the hair, 
So shall Time be j and as the void car, hurled 
Abroad by reinless steeds, even so the world : 
Yea, even as chariot-dust upon the air. 
It shall be sought and not found anywhere. 
Get thee behind me, Satan. Oft unfurled, 
Thy perilous wings can beat and break like lath 
Much mightiness of men to win thee praise. 
Leave these weak feet to tread in narrow ways. 
Thou still, upon the broad vine-sheltered path, 
Mayst wait the turning of the phials of wrath 
For certain years, for certain months and days. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 209 



SONNET XCI. 



LOST ON BOTH SIDES. 



As when two men have loved a woman well, 

Each hating each, through Love's and Death's deceit ; 
Since not for either this stark marriage-sheet 

And the long pauses of this wedding-bell ; 

Yet o'er her grave the night and day dispel 
At last their feud forlorn, with cold and heat j 
Nor other than dear friends to death may fleet 

The two lives left that most of her can tell ; — 

So separate hopes, which in a soul had wooed 
The one same Peace, strove with each other long, 
And Peace before their faces perished since : - 
So through that soul, in restless brotherhood, 
They roam together now, and wind among 
Its bye-streets, knocking at the dusty inns. 



2IO THE HOUSE OP' LIFE. 

SONNETS XCIL, XCIII. 

THE SUN'S SHAME. 
I. 

Beholding youth and hope in mockery caught 
From life ; and mocking pulses that remain 
When the soul's death of bodily death is fain ; 

Honor unknown, and honor known unsought ; 

And penury's sedulous self-torturing thought 
On gold, whose master therewith buys his bane ; 
And longed-for woman longing all in vain 

For lonely man with love's desire distraught ; 

And wealth, and strength, and power, and pleasantness, 
Given unto bodies of whose souls men say, 
None poor and weak, slavish and foul, as they : — 

Beholding these things, I behold no less 

The blushing morn and blushing eve confess 
The shame that loads the intolerable day. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 211 



II. 



As some true chief of men, bowed down with stress 
Of life's disastrous eld, on blossoming youth 
May gaze, and murmur with self-pity and ruth, — 

" Might I thy fruitless treasure but possess. 

Such blessing of mine all coming years should bless ; " — 
Then sends one sigh forth to the unknown goal, 
And bitterly feels breathe against his soul 

The hour swift- winged of nearer nothingness : — 

Even so the World's gray Soul to the green World 
Perchance one hour must cry : " Woe 's me, for whom 
Inveteracy of ill portends the doom, — 

Whose heart's old fire in shadow of shame is furl'd : 
While thou even as of yore art journeying. 
All soulless now, yet merry with the Spring ! " 



212 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 



SONNET XCIV. 



MICHELANGELO'S KISS. 



Great Michelangelo, with age grown bleak 
And uttermost labors, having once o'ersaid 
AU grievous memories on his long life shed, 

This worst regret to one true heart could speak : — 

That when, with sorrowing love and reverence meek, 
He stooped o'er sweet Colonna's dying bed. 
His Muse and dominant Lady, spirit-wed, — 

Her hand he kissed, but not her brow or cheek. 



O Buonarruoti, — good at Art's fire-wheels 
To urge her chariot ! — even thus the Soul, 
Touching at length some sorely- chastened goal, 

Earns oftenest but a little : her appeals 

Were deep and mute, — lowly her claim. Let be : 
What holds for her Death's garner ? And for thee ? 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 213 

SONNET XCV. 

THE VASE OF LIFE. 

Around the vase of Life at your slow pace 

He has not crept, but turned it with his hands, 

And all its sides already understands. 
There, girt, one breathes alert for some great race ; 
Whose road runs far by sands and fruitful space ; 

Who laughs, yet through the jolly throng has pass'd ; 

Who weeps, nor stays for weeping ; who at last, 
A youth, stands somewhere crowned, with silent face. 

And he has filled this vase with wine for blood, 
With blood for tears, with spice for burning vow, 
With watered flowers for buried love most fit ; 
And would have cast it shattered to the flood, 
Yet in Fate's name has kept it whole ; which now 
Stands empty till his ashes fall in it. 



214 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 



SONNET XCVI. 



LIFE THE BELOVED. 



As thy friend's face, with shadow of soul o'erspread, 
Somewhile unto thy sight perchance hath been 
Ghastly and strange, yet never so is seen 

In thought, but to all fortunate favor wed ; 

As thy love's death-bound features never dead 
To memory's glass return, but contravene 
Frail fugitive days, and alway keep, I ween, 

Than all new life a liveUer lovelihead : — 



So Life herself, thy spirit's friend and love, 
Even still as Spring's authentic harbinger 
Glows with fresh hours for hope to glorify ; 
Though pale she lay when in the winter grove 
Her funeral flowers were snow-flakes shed on her 
And the red wings of frost-fire rent the sky. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE. 215 

SONNET XCVII. 
A SUPERSCRIPTION. 

Look in my face ; my name is Might-have-been ; 

I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell ; 

Unto thine ear I hold the dead- sea shell 
Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between ; 
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen 

Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell 

Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, 
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. 

Mark me, how still I am ! But should there dart 
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise 
Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs, — 

Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart 

Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart 
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. 



2l6 THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 



SONNET XCVIII. 
HE AND I. 

Whence came his feet into my field, and why? 

How is it that he sees it all so drear? 

How do I see his seeing, and how hear 
The name his bitter silence knows it by? 
This was the little fold of separate sky 

Whose pasturing clouds in the soul's atmosphere 

Drew living light from one continual year : 
How should he find it hfeless ? He, or I ? 

Lo ! this new Self now wanders round my field. 
With plaints for every flower, and for each tree 
A moan, the sighing wind's auxiliary : 
And o'er sweet waters of my life, that yield 
Unto his lips no draught but tears unseal'd, 
Even in my place he weeps. Even I, not he. 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 217 

SONNETS XCIX., C. 

NEWBORN DEATH. 



To-day Death seems to me an infant child 
Which her worn mother Life upon my knee 
Has set to grow my friend and play with me ; 

If haply so my heart might be beguil'd 

To find no terrors in a face so mild, — 
If haply so my weary heart might be 
Unto the newborn milky eyes of thee, 

O Death, before resentment reconcil'd. 

How long, O Death? And shall thy feet depart 
Still a young child's with mine, or wilt thou stand 

Fullgrown the helpful daughter of my heart, 
What time with thee indeed I reach the strand 

Of the pale wave which knows thee what thou art. 
And drink it in the hollow of thy hand? 



2l8 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 



II. 



And thou, O Life, the lady of all bliss, 

With whom, when our first heart beat full and fast, 
I wandered till the haunts of men were pass'd, 

And in fair places found all bowers amiss 

Till only woods and waves might hear our kiss, 

While to the winds all thought of Death we cast : — 
Ah, Life ! and must I have from thee at last 

No smile to greet me and no babe but this? 



Lo ! Love, the child once ours ; and Song, whose hair 
Blew like a flame and blossomed like a wreath ; 

And Art, whose eyes were worlds by God found fair ; 
These o'er the book of Nature mixed their breath 

With neck-twined arms, as oft we watched them there : 
And did these die that thou mightst bear me Death? 



THE HOUSE OF LIFE, 219 



SONNET CI. 
THE ONE HOPE. 

When vain desire at last and vain regret 
Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain, 
What shall assuage the unforgotten pain 

And teach the unforgetful to forget ? 

Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long unmet, — 
Or may the soul at once in a green plain 
Stoop through the spray of some sweet life-fountain 

And cull the dew-drenched flowering amulet? 

Ah ! when the wan soul in that golden air 
Between the scriptured petals softly blown 
Peers breathless for the gift of grace unknown, — 
Ah ! let none other aUen spell soe'er 
But only the one Hope's one name be there, — 
Not less nor more, but even that word alone. 



LYRICS, 

&c. 



i 



SOOTHSAY. 



Let no man ask thee of an)^hing 
Not yearbom between Spring and Spring. 
More of all worlds than he can know, 
Each day the single sun doth show. 
A trustier gloss than thou canst give 
From all wise scrolls demonstrative, 
The sea doth sigh and the wind sing. 

Let no man awe thee on any height 
Of earthly kingship's mouldering might. 
The dust his heel holds meet for thy brow 
Hath all of it been what both are now ; 
And thou and he may plague together 
A beggar's eyes in some dusty weather 
When none that is now knows sound or sight. 



224 SOOTHSAY. 

Crave thou no dower of earthly things 

Unworthy Hope's imaginings. 

To have brought true birth of Song to be 

And to have won hearts to Poesy, 

Or anywhere in the sun or rain 

To have loved and been beloved again, 

Is loftiest reach of Hope's bright wings. 

The wild waifs cast up by the sea 

Are diverse ever seasonably. 

Even so the soul-tides still may land 

A different drift upon the sand. 

But one the sea is evermore : 

And one be still, 'twixt shore and shore, 

As the sea's hfe, thy soul in thee. 



Say, hast thou pride ? How then may fit 
Thy mood with flatterers' silk-spun wit ? 
Haply the sweet voice lifts thy crest, 
A breeze of fame made manifest. 
Nay, but then chaf'st at flattery? Pause : 
Be sure thy wrath is not because 
It makes thee feel thou lovest it. 



SOOTHS A K 225 

Let thy soul strive that still the same 

Be early friendship's sacred flame. 

The affinities have strongest part 

In youth, and draw men heart to heart s 

As life wears on and finds no rest, 

The individual in each breast 

Is tyrannous to sunder them. 

In the life-drama's stern cue-call, 

A friend 's a part well-prized by all : 

And if thou meet an enemy, 

What art thou that none such should be ? 

Even so : but if the two parts run 

Into each other and grow one. 

Then comes the curtain's cue to fall. 

Whate'er by other's need is claimed 

More than by thine, — to him unblamed 

Resign it : and if he should hold 

What more than he thou lack'st, bread, gold. 

Or any good whereby we live, — 

To thee such substance let him give 

Freely : nor he nor thou be shamed. 



226 SOOTHSA Y. 

Strive that thy works prove equal : lest 
That work which thou hast done the best 
Should come to be to thee at length 
(Even as to envy seems the strength 
Of others) hateful and abhorr'd, — 
Thine own above thyself made lord, — 
Of self-rebuke the bitterest. 

Unto the man of yearning thought 
And aspiration, to do nought 
Is in itself almost an act, — 
Being chasm-fire and cataract 
Of the soul's utter depths unseal'd. 
Yet woe to thee if once thou yield 
Unto the act of doing nought ! 

How callous seems beyond revoke 
The clock with its last listless stroke ! 
How much too late at length ! — to trace 
The hour on its forewarning face, 
The thing thou hast not dared to do ! . . . 
Behold, this may be thus ! Ere true 
It prove, arise and bear thy yoke. 



I 



SOOTHS A Y. 

Let lore of all Theology 

Be to thy soul what it can be : 

But know, -- the Power that fashions man 

Measured not out thy little span 

For thee to take the meting-rod 

In turn, and so approve on God 

Thy science of Theometry. 

To God at best, to Chance at worst, 
Give thanks for good things, last as first. 
But windstrown blossom is that good 
Whose apple is not gratitude. 
Even if no prayer uplift thy face, 
Let the sweet right to render grace 
As thy soul's cherished child be nurs'd. 

Didst ever say, "Lo, I forget"? 
Such thought was to remember yet. 
As in a gravegarth, count to see 
The monuments of memory. 
Be this thy soul's appointed scope : — 
Gaze onward without claim to hope, 
Nor, gazing backward, court regret. ' 



22^ 



228 CHIMES. 



CHIMES. 



Honey-flowers to the honey-comb 
And the honey-bees from home. 

A honey-comb and a honey-flower. 
And the bee shall have his hour. 

A honeyed heart for the honey-comb. 
And the humming bee flies home. 

A heavy heart in the honey-flower, 
And the bee has had his hour. 



CHIMES, 229 



n. 



A honey- cell *s in the honeysuckle, 
And the honey-bee knows it well. 

The honey-comb has a heart of honey, 
And the humming bee 's so bonny. 

A honey-flower 's the honeysuckle, 
And the bee 's in the honey-bell. 

The honeysuckle is sucked of honey. 
And the bee is heavy and bonny. 



230 CHIMES. 



m. 

Brown shell first for the butterfly 
And a bright wing by and by. 

Butterfly, good-bye to your shell, 
And, bright wings, speed you weU. 



Bright lamplight for the butterfly 
And a burnt wing by and by. 



Butterfly, alas for your shell. 
And, bright wings, fare you well. 



CHIMES. 231 



IV. 

Lost love-labor and lullaby, 
And lowly let love lie. 

Lost love-morrow and love-fellow 
And love's life lying low. 

Lovelorn labor and life laid by 
And lowly let love lie. 

Late love-longing and life-sorrow 
And love's life lying low. 



232 CHIMES, 



Beauty's body and benison 
With a bosom-flower new-blown. 

Bitter beauty and blessing bann'd 
With a breast to bum and brand. 



Beauty's bower in the dust o'erblown 
With a bare white breast of bone. 



Barren beauty and bower of sand 
With a blast on either hand. 



CHIMES, 233 



VI. 

Buried bars in the breakwater 
And bubble of the brimming weir. 

Body's blood in the breakwater 
And a buried body's bier. 

Buried bones in the breakwater 
And bubble of the brawling weir. 

Bitter tears in the breakwater 
And a breaking heart to bear. 



234 CHIMES. 



VII. 

Hollow heaven and the hurricane 
And hurry of the heavy rain. 

Hurried clouds in the hollow heaven 
And a heavy rain hard-driven. 

The heavy rain it hurries amain 
And heaven and the hurricane. 

Hurrying wind o'er the heaven's hollow 
And the heavy rain to follow. 



PARTED PRESENCE, 235 



PARTED PRESENCE. 



Love, I speak to your heart, 

Your heart that is always here. 

Oh draw me deep to its sphere, 
Though you and I are apart ; 
And yield, by the spirit's art, 

Each distant gift that is dear. 

O love, my love, you are here ! 

Your eyes are afar to-day, 

Yet, love, look now in mine eyes. 

Two hearts sent forth may despise 
All dead things by the way. 
All between is decay. 

Dead hours and this hour that dies, 

O love, look deep in mine eyes 1 



236 



PARTED PRESENCE. 



Your hands to-day are not here, 

Yet lay them, love, in my hands. 

The hourglass sheds its sands 
All day for the dead hours' bier ; 
But now, as two hearts draw near, 

This hour like a flower expands. 

O love, your hands in my hands ! 

Your voice is not on the air. 
Yet, love, I can hear your voice : 
It bids my heart to rejoice 

As knowing your heart is there, — 

A music sweet to declare 
The truth of your steadfast choice. 
O love, how sweet is your voice ! 



To-day your lips are afar, 

Yet draw my lips to them, love. 

Around, beneath, and above, 
Is frost to bind and to bar ; 
But where I am and you are, 

Desire and the fire thereof. 

O kiss me, kiss me, my love ! 



PARTED PRESENCE, 237 

Your heart is never away, 

But ever with mine, for ever, 

For ever without endeavor. 
To-morrow, love, as to-day ; 
Two blent hearts never astray. 

Two souls no power may sever. 

Together, O my love, for ever ! 



238 A DEATH-PARTING. 



A DEATH-PARTING. 

Leaves and rain and the days of the year, 

( Water-willow and wellaway,) 
All these fall, and my soul gives ear, 
And she is hence who once was here. 
( With a wind blown night and day,) 

Ah ! but now, for a secret sign, 

(^The willow^ s wan and the water white,) 
In the held breath of the day's decline 
Her very face seemed pressed to mine. 

( With a wind blown day and night.) 

O love, of my death my life is fain ; 

{The willows wave on the water-way^ 
Your cheek and mine are cold in the rain, 
But warm they '11 be when we meet again. 

( With a wind blown 7iight and day,) 



A DEATH-PARTING. 239 

Mists are heaved and cover the sky ; 

{The willows wail in the watting light,) 
O loose your hps, leave space for a sigh, — 
They seal my soul, I cannot die. 

( With a wind blown day and night.) 

Leaves and rain and the days of the year, 

( Water-willow aftd wellaway,) 
All still fall, and I still give ear. 
And she is hence, and I am here. 

( With a wind blown night and day^ 



240 SPHERAL CHANGE, 



SPHERAL CHANGE. 

In this new shade of Death, the show 
Passes me still of form and face ; 

Some bent, some gazing as they go, 
Some swiftly, some at a dull pace, 
Not one that speaks in any case. 

If only one might speak ! — the one 
Who never waits till I come near ; 

But always seated all alone 
As listening to the sunken air. 
Is gone before I come to her. 

O dearest ! while we lived and died 
A living death in every day, 

Some hours we still were side by side, 
When where I was you too might stay 
And rest and need not go away. 



SPHERAL CHANGE, 241 

O nearest, furthest ! Can there be 

At length some hard-earned heart-won home, 

Where, — exile changed for sanctuary, — 
Our lot may fill indeed its sum, 
And you may wait and I may come ? 



I 



242 SUNSET WINGS, 



SUNSET WINGS. 

To-night this sunset spreads two golden wings 

Cleaving the western sky ; 
Winged too with wind it is, and winnowings 
Of birds ; as if the day's last hour in rings 

Of strenuous flight must die. 

Sun-steeped in fire, the homeward pinions sway 

Above the dovecote-tops ; 
And clouds of starlings, ere they rest with day, 
Sink, clamorous like mill-waters, at wild play, 

By turns in every copse : 

Each tree heart-deep the wrangling rout receives, — 

Save for the whirr within, 
You could not tell the starlings from the leaves ; 
Then one great puff of wings, and the swarm heaves 

Away with all its din. 



SUNSET WINGS. 243 

Even thus Hope's hours, in ever-eddying flight, 

To many a refuge tend ; 
With the first light she laughed, and the last light 
Glows round her still ; who natheless in the night 

At length must make an end. 

And now the mustering rooks innumerable 

Together sail and soar. 
While for the day's death, like a tolling knell, 
Unto the heart they seem to cry, Farewell, 

No more, farewell, no more ! 

Is Hope not plumed, as 't were a fiery dart? 

And oh ! thou dying day, 
Even as thou goest must she too depart. 
And Sorrow fold such pinions on the heart 

As will not fly away? 



244 



SONG AND MUSIC. 



SONG AND MUSIC. 

O LEAVE your hand where it lies cool 

Upon the eyes whose hds are hot : 
Its rosy shade is bountiful 

Of silence, and assuages thought. 
O lay your lips against your hand 

And let me feel your breath through it, 
While through the sense your song shall fit 

The soul to understand. 



The music lives upon my brain 

Between your hands within mine eyes; 
It stirs your lifted throat like pain, 

An aching pulse of melodies. 
Lean nearer, let the music pause : 

The soul may better understand 
Your music, shadowed in your hand, 

Now while the song withdraws. 



THREE SHADOWS, 245 



THREE SHADOWS. 

I LOOKED and saw your eyes 

In the shadow of your hair, 
As a traveller sees the stream 

In the shadow of the wood ; 
And I said, " My faint heart sighs, 

Ah me ! to linger there, 
To drink deep and to dream 

In that sweet solitude." 

I looked and saw your heart 

In the shadow of your eyes. 
As a seeker sees the gold 

In the shadow of the stream \ 
And I said, " Ah me ! what art 

Should win the immortal prize, 
Whose want must make life cold 

And Heaven a hollow dream ? " 



246 THREE SHADOWS, 

I looked and saw your love 

In the shadow of your heart. 
As a diver sees the pearl 

In the shadow of the sea ; 
And I murmured, not above 

My breath, but all apart, — 
" Ah ! you can love, true girl. 

And is your love for me?" 



ALAS, SO LONG, 247 



ALAS, SO LONG! 

Ah ! dear one, we were young so long, 
It seemed that youth would never go. 
For skies and trees were ever in song 

And water in singing flow 
In the days we never again shall know. 
Alas, so long ! 
Ah ! then was it all Spring weather? 
Nay, but we were young and together. 

Ah ! dear one, I Ve been old so long, 

It seems that age is loth to part, 
Though days and years have never a song, 

And oh ! have they still the art 
That warmed the pulses of heart to heart ? 
Alas, so long ! 
Ah ! then was it all Spring weather? 
Nay, but we were young and together. 



248 ALAS, SO LONG. 

Ah ! dear one, you Ve been dead so long, - 

How long until we meet again, 
Where hours may never lose their song 

Nor flowers forget the rain 
In glad noonlight that never shall wane ? 
Alas, so long ! 
Ah ! shall it be then Spring weather, 
And ah ! shall we be young together? 



ADIEU. 249 



ADIEU. 

Waving whispering trees, 
What do you say to the breeze 

And what says the breeze to you ? 
'Mid passing souls ill at ease, 
Moving murmuring trees, 

Would ye ever wave an Adieu 

Tossing turbulent seas. 
Winds that wrestle with these, 

Echo heard in the shell, — 
'Mid fleeting life ill at ease, 
Restless ravening seas, — 

Would the echo sigh Farewell? 

Surging sumptuous skies. 
For ever a new surprise. 
Clouds eternally new, — 



250 ADIEU. 



Is every flake that flies, 
Widening wandering skies, 
For a sign — Farewell, Adieu ? 

Sinking suffering heart 

That know'st how weary thou art, • 

Soul so fain for a flight, — 
Aye, spread your wings to depart, 
Sad soul and sorrowing heart, — 

Adieu, Farewell, Good-night. 



INSOMNIA. 25 X 



INSOMNIA. 

Thin are the night-skirts left behind 
By daybreak hours that onward creep, 
And thin, alas ! the shred of sleep 

That wavers with the spirit's wind : 

But in half-dreams that shift and roll 
And still remember and forget, 

My soul this hour has drawn your soul 
A little nearer yet. 

Our lives, most dear, are never near. 
Our thoughts are never far apart, 
Though all that draws us heart to heart 

Seems fainter now and now more clear. 

To-night Love claims his full control, 
And with desire and with regret 

My soul this hour has drawn your soul 
A Httle nearer yet. 



252 INSOMNIA. 

Is there a home where heavy earth 

Melts to bright air that breathes no pain, 
Where water leaves no thirst again 

And springing fire is Love's new birth? 

If faith long bound to one true goal 
May there at length its hope beget, 

My soul that hour shall draw your soul 
For ever nearer yet. 



POSSESSION. 253 



POSSESSION. 

There is a cloud above the sunset hill. 

That wends and makes no stay, 
For its goal lies beyond the fiery west ; 
A lingering breath no calm can chase away, 
The onward labor of the wind's last will ; 
A flying foam that overleaps the crest 
Of the top wave : and in possession still 
A further reach of longing ; though at rest 

From all the yearning years, 
Together in the bosom of that day 
Ye cling, and with your kisses drink your tears. 



254 THE CLOUD CONFINES, 



THE CLOUD CONFINES. 

The day is dark and the night 

To him that would search their heart ; 
No lips of cloud that will part 
Nor morning song in the light : 
Only, gazing alone, 
To him wild shadows are shown, 
Deep under deep unknown 
And height above unknown height. 
Still we say as we go, — 

" Strange to think by the way, 
Whatever there is to know, 
That shall we know one day." 

The Past is over and fled ; 

Named new, we name it the old ; 

Thereof some tale hath been told. 
But no word comes from the dead : 



THE CLOUD CONFINES, 255 

Whether at all they be, 
Or whether as bond or free, 
Or whether they too were we, 
Or by what spell they have sped. 
Still we say as we go, — 

" Strange to think by the way, 
Whatever there is to know. 
That shall we know one day." 

What of the heart of hate 

That beats in thy breast, O Time ? — 
Red strife from the furthest prime, 
And anguish of fierce debate ; 
War that shatters her slain, 
And peace that grinds them as grain, 
And eyes fixed ever in vain 
On the pitiless eyes of Fate. 

Still we say as we go, — 

" Strange to think by the way. 
Whatever there is to know, 
That shall we know one day." 

What of the heart of love 

That bleeds in thy breast, O Man ? — 



256 THE CLOUD CONFINES. 

Thy kisses snatched 'neath the ban 
Of fangs that mock them above ; 
Thy bells prolonged unto knells, 
Thy hope that a breath dispels. 
Thy bitter forlorn farewells 
And the empty echoes thereof? 

Still we say as we go, — 

" Strange to think by the way. 
Whatever there is to know, 
That shall we know one day." 

The sky leans dumb on the sea. 
Aweary with all its wings ; 
And oh ! the song the sea sings 
Is dark everlastingly. 
Our past is clean forgot. 
Our present is and is not, 
Our future 's a sealed seedplot. 
And what betwixt them are we ? — 
We who say as we go, — 

" Strange to think by the way. 
Whatever there is to know. 
That shall we know one day." 



SONNETS. 



FOR 

THE HOLY FAMILY, 

BY MICHELANGELO. 
{In the National Gallery}) 

Turn not the prophet's page, O Son ! He knew 
All that thou hast to suffer, and hath writ. 
Not yet thine hour of knowledge. Infinite 

The sorrows that thy manhood's lot must rue 

And dire acquaintance of thy grief That clue 
The spirits of thy mournful ministerings 
Seek through yon scroll in silence. For these things 

The angels have desired to look into. 

Still before Eden waves the fiery sword, 

Her Tree of Life unransomed : whose sad Tree 
Of Knowledge yet to growth of Calvary 

Must yield its Tempter, — Hell the earliest dead 
Of Earth resign, — and yet, O Son and Lord, 

The Seed o' the woman bruise the serpent's head. 

1 In this picture the Virgin Mother is seen withholding from the 
Child Saviour the prophetic writings in which his sufferings are 
foretold. Angelic figures beside them examine a scroll. 



26o SONNETS, 

FOR 
SPRING, 

BY SANDRO BOTTICELLI. 

{In the Accademia of Florence^ 

What masque of what old wind-withered New-Year 
Honors this Lady ? ^ Flora, wanton-eyed 
For birth, and with all flowrets prankt and pied : 

Aurora, Zephyrus, with mutual cheer 

Of clasp and kiss : the Graces circling near, 

'Neath bower-linked arch of white arms glorified : 
And with those feathered feet which hovering gUde 

O'er Spring's brief bloom, Hermes the harbinger. 

Birth-bare, not death-bare yet, the young stems stand, 
This Lady's temple-columns : o'er her head 
Love wings his shaft. What mystery here is read 

Of homage or of hope ? But how command 

Dead Springs to answer? And how question here 
These mummers of that wind-withered New-Year? 

1 The same lady, here surrounded by the masque of Spring, is 
evidently the subject of a portrait by Botticelli formerly in the 
Pourtales collection in Paris. This portrait is inscribed " Smer- 
alda Bandinelli." 



SONNETS. 261 

FIVE ENGLISH POETS. 

I. THOMAS CHATTERTON. 

With Shakspeare's manhood at a boy's wild heart, — 
Through Hamlet's doubt to Shakspeare near allied, 
And kin to Milton through his Satan's pride, — 

At Death's sole door he stooped, and craved a dart ; 

And to the dear new bower of England's art, — 
Even to that shrine Time else had deified, 
The unuttered heart that soared against his side, — 

Drove the fell point, and smote hfe's seals apart. 

Thy nested home-loves, noble Chatterton ; 
The angel-trodden stair thy soul could trace 
Up Redcliffe's spire ; and in the world's armed space 

Thy gallant sword-play : — these to many an one 

Are sweet for ever ; as thy grave unknown 
And love-dream of thine unrecorded face. 



262 SONNETS, 



II. WILLIAM BLAKE. 
(To Frederick Shields, on his Sketch of Blake's work-room 

AND death-room, 3, FOUNTAIN COURT, StRAND.) 

This is the place. Even here the dauntless soul, 
The unflinching hand, wrought on ; till in that nook, 
As on that very bed, his life partook 

New birth, and passed. Yon river's dusky shoal, 

Whereto the close-built coiling lanes unroll. 

Faced his work-window, whence his eyes would stare, 
Thought-wandering, unto nought that met them there, 

But to the unfettered irreversible goal. 

This cupboard. Holy of HoUes, held the cloud 
Of his soul writ and limned ; this other one, 

His true wife's charge, full oft to their abode 
Yielded for daily bread the martyr's stone. 
Ere yet their food might be that Bread alone, 

The words now home-speech of the mouth of God. 



SONNETS. 263 



III. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

His Soul fared forth (as from the deep home-grove 
The father-songster pUes the hour-long quest,) 
To feed his soul-brood hungering in the nest ; 

But his warm Heart, the mother-bird, above 

Their callow fledgling progeny still hove 

With tented roof of wings and fostering breast 
Till the Soul fed the soul-brood. Richly blest 

From Heaven their growth, whose food was Human Love, 

Yet ah ! Like desert pools that show the stars 

Once in long leagues, — even such the scarce-snatched 
hours 

Which deepening pain left to his lordliest powers : — 
Heaven lost through spider-trammelled prison-bars. 

Six years, from sixty saved ! Yet kindling skies 

Own them, a beacon to our centuries. 



264 SONNETS. 



IV. JOHN KEATS. 

The weltering London ways where children weep 

And girls whom none call maidens laugh, — strange 

road 
Miring his outward steps, who inly trode 

The bright CastaUan brink and Latmos' steep : — 

Even such his life's cross-paths ; till deathly deep 
He toiled through sands of Lethe ; and long pain, 
Weary with labor spurned and love found vain. 

In dead Rome's sheltering shadow wrapped his sleep. 

O pang-dowered Poet, whose reverberant lips 
And heart-strung lyre awoke the Moon's eclipse, — 

Thou whom the daisies glory in growing o'er, — 
Their fragrance clings around thy name, not writ 
But rumor' d in water, while the fame of it 

Along Time's flood goes echoing evermore. 



SONNETS. 265 



V. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

(Inscription for the couch, still preserved, on which he 
passed the last night of mis life.) 

'TwiXT those twin worlds, — the world of Sleep, which 
gave 
No dream to warn, — the tidal world of Death, 
Which the earth's sea, as the earth, replenisheth, — 

Shelley, Song's orient sun, to breast the wave, . 

Rose from this couch that mom. Ah ! did he brave 
Only the sea ? — or did man's deed of hell 
Engulph his bark 'mid mists impenetrable ? . . . . 

No eye discerned, nor any power might save. 

When that mist cleared, O Shelley ! what dread veil 
Was rent for thee, to whom far-darkling Truth 
Reigned sovereign guide through thy brief ageless 
youth ? 

Was the Truth thy Truth, Shelley? — Hush ! All- Hail, 
Past doubt, thou gav'st it ; and in Truth's bright sphere 
Art first of praisers, being most praised here. 



266 SONNETS, 



TIBER, NILE, AND THAMES. 

The head and hands of murdered Cicero, 
Above his seat high in the Forum hung, 
Drew jeers and burning tears. When on the rung 

Of a swift-mounted ladder, all aglow, 

Fulvia, Mark Antony's shameless wife, with show 
Of foot firm-poised and gleaming arm upflung. 
Bade her sharp needle pierce that god-like tongue 

Whose speech fed Rome even as the Tiber's flow. 

And thou, Cleopatra's Needle, that hadst thrid 
Great skirts of Time ere she and Antony hid 

Dead hope ! — hast thou too reached, surviving deaths 
A city of sweet speech scorned, — on whose chill stone 
Keats withered, Coleridge pined, and Chatterton, 

Breadless, with poison froze the God-fired breath ? 



SONNETS. 267 



THE LAST THREE FROM TRAFALGAR 

At the Anniversary Banquet, 
2 1 ST October, 187*. 

In grappled ships around The Victory, 

Three boys did England's Duty with stout cheer, 
While one dread truth was kept from every ear, 

More dire than deafening fire that churned the sea ; 

For in the flag-ship's weltering cockpit, he 
Who was the Battle's Heart without a peer, 
He who had seen all fearful sights save Fear, 

Was passing from all life save Victory. 

And round the old memorial board to-day, 

Three graybeards — each a warworn British Tar - 
View through the mist of years that hour afar : 
Who soon shall greet, 'mid memories of fierce fray, 
The impassioned soul which on its radiant way 
Soared through the fiery cloud of Trafalgar. 



268 SONNETS. 

CZAR ALEXANDER THE SECOND. 
(i3TH March, i88i.) 

From him did forty million serfs, endow'd 
Each with six feet of death-due soil, receive 
Rich freeborn lifelong land, whereon to sheave 

Their country's harvest. These to-day aloud 

Demand of Heaven a Father's blood, — sore bow'd 
With tears and thrilled with wrath; who, while they 

grieve. 
On every guilty head would fain achieve 

All torment by his edicts disallow'd. 

He stayed the knout's red-ravening fangs ; and first 
Of Russian traitors, his own murderers go 
White to the tomb. While he, — laid foully low 
With limbs red-rent, with festering brain which erst 
Willed kingly freedom, — 'gainst the deed accurst 
To God bears witness of his people's woe. 



SONNETS, 269 



WORDS ON THE WINDOW-PANE.^ 

Did she in summer write it, or in spring, 
Or with this wail of autumn at her ears, 
Or in some winter left among old years 

Scratched it through tettered cark? A certain thing 

That round her heart the frost was hardening. 
Not to be thawed of tears, which on this pane 
Channelled the rime, perchance, in fevered rain, 

For false man's sake and love's most bitter sting. 

Howbeit, between this last word and the next 
Unwritten, subtly seasoned was the smart. 

And here at least the grace to weep : if she, 
Rather, midway in her disconsolate text. 
Rebelled not, loathing from the trodden heart 

That thing which she had found man's love to be. 

1 For a woman's fragmentary inscription. 



270 SONNETS. 



WINTER. 

How large that thrush looks on the bare thorn-tree ! 

A swarm of such, three little months ago, 

Had hidden in the leaves and let none know 
Save by the outburst of their minstrelsy. 
A white flake here and there — a snow-lily 

Of last night's frost — our naked flower-beds hold; 

And for a rose-flower on the darkling mould 
The hungry redbreast gleams. No bloom, no bee. 

The current shudders to its ice-bound sedge : 
Nipped in their bath, the stark reeds one by one 
Flash each its clinging diamond in the sun : 
'Neath winds which for this Winter's sovereign pledge 
Shall curb great king-masts to the ocean's edge 
And leave memorial forest-kings o'erthrown. 



SONNETS, 271 



SPRING. 

Soft-littered is the new-year's lambing-fold. 
And in the hollowed haystack at its side 
The shepherd lies o' nights now, wakeful-eyed 

At the ewes' travailing call through the dark cold. 

The young rooks cheep 'mid the thick caw o' the old : 
And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground, 
By her spring-cry the moorhen's nest is found. 

Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold. 

Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower. 
And chill the current where the young reeds stand 
As green and close as the young wheat on land : 
Yet here the cuckoo and the cuckoo-flower 
Plight to the heart Spring's perfect imminent hour 
Whose breath shaU soothe you like your dear one's 
hand. 



272 SONNETS. 



THE CHURCH-PORCH. 

Sister, first shake we off the dust we have 
Upon our feet, lest it defile the stones 
Inscriptured, covering their sacred bones 

Who lie i' the aisles which keep the names they gave, 

Their trust abiding round them in the grave ; 
Whom painters paint for visible orisons. 
And to whom sculptors pray in stone and bronze ; 

Their voices echo still like a spent wave. 

Without here, the church-bells are but a tune, 
And on the carven church-door this hot noon 

Lays all its heavy sunshine here without : 
But having entered in, we shall find there 
Silence, and sudden dimness, and deep prayer. 

And faces of crowned angels all about. 



I 



SONNETS, 273 



UNTIMELY LOST. 

(Oliver Madox Brown. Born 1855; 
Died 1874.) 

Upon the landscape of his coming hfe 

A youth high-gifted gazed, and found it fair : 

The heights of work, the floods of praise, were there. 

What friendships, what desires, what love, what wife? — 

All things to come. The fanned springtide was rife 
With imminent solstice ; and the ardent air 
Had summer sweets and autumn fires to bear ; — 

Heart's ease full-pulsed with perfect strength for strife. 

A mist has risen : we see the youth no more : 
Does he see on and strive on ? And may we 
Late-tottering worldwom hence, find his to be 

The young strong hand which helps us up that shore ? 

Or, echoing the No More with Nevermore, 

Must Night be ours and his? We hope : and he? 



I 



274 



SONNETS. 



PLACE DE LA BASTILLE, PARIS. 

How dear the sky has been above this place ! 
Small treasures of this sky that we see here 
Seen weak through prison-bars from year to year ; 

Eyed with a painful prayer upon God's grace 

To save, and tears that stayed along the face 
Lifted at sunset. Yea, how passing dear. 
Those nights when through the bars a wind left clear 

The heaven, and moonHght soothed the limpid space ! 

So was it, till one night the secret kept 
Safe in low vault and stealthy corridor 

Was blown abroad on gospel-tongues of flame. 
O ways of God, mysterious evermore ! 
How many on this spot have cursed and wept 

That all might stand here now and own Thy Name. 



SONNETS, 275 



« FOUND." 

(FOR A PICTURE.) 

« There is a budding morrow in midnight : " — 
So sang our Keats, our English nightingale. 
And here, as lamps across the bridge turn pale 

In London's smokeless resurrection-light. 

Dark breaks to dawn. But o'er the deadly blight 
Of love deflowered and sorrow of none avail 
Which makes this man gasp and this woman quail, 

Can day from darkness ever again take flight? 

Ah ! gave not these two hearts their mutual pledge, 
Under one mantle sheltered 'neath the hedge 

In gloaming courtship? And O God ! to-day 
He only knows he holds her ; — but what part 
Can life now take ? She cries in her locked heart, — 

" Leave me — I do not know you — go away I " 



2^6 SONNETS, 



A SEA-SPELL. 

(FOR A PICTURE.) 

Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree, 

While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell 
Between its chords ; and as the wild notes swell, 

The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea. 

But to what sound her listening ear stoops she ? 
What netherworld gulf-whispers doth she hear, 
In answering echoes from what planisphere, 

Along the wind, along the estuary? 

She sinks into her spell : and when full soon 
Her lips move and she soars into her song, 
What creatures of the midmost main shall throng 

In furrowed surf-clouds to the summoning rune : 
Till he, the fated mariner, hears her cry, 
And up her rock, bare-breasted, comes to die ? 



SONNETS, 277 



FIAMMETTA. 

(FOR A PICTURE.) 

Behold Fiammetta, shown in Vision here. 

Gloom-girt 'mid Spring- flushed apple-growth she stands ; 

And as she sways the branches with her hands. 
Along her arm the sundered bloom falls sheer, 
In separate petals shed, each like a tear ; 

While from the quivering bough the bird expands 

His wings. And lo ! thy spirit understands 
Life shaken and shower'd and flown, and Death drawn 
near. 

All stirs with change. Her garments beat the air : 
The angel circling round her aureole 
Shimmers in flight against the tree's gray bole : 
While she, with reassuring eyes most fair, 
A presage and a promise stands ; as 't were 
On Death's dark storm the rainbow of the Soul. 



278 SONNETS, 

THE DAY-DREAM. 

(FOR A PICTURE.) 

The thronged boughs of the shadowy sycamore 

Still bear young leaflets half the summer through ; 

From when the robin 'gainst the unhidden blue 
Perched dark, till now, deep in the leafy core, 
The embowered throstle's urgent wood-notes soar 

Through summer silence. Still the leaves come new ; 

Yet never rosy-sheathed as those which drew 
Their spiral tongues from spring-buds heretofore. 

Within the branching shade of Reverie 

Dreams even may spring till autumn : yet none be 

Like woman's budding day-dream spirit-fann'd. 
Lo ! tow'rd deep skies, not deeper than her look, 
She dreams ; till now on her forgotten book 

Drops the forgotten blossom from her hand. 



SONNETS, 279 



ASTARTE SYRIACA. 

(FOR A PICTURE.) 

Mystery : lo ! betwixt the sun and moon 
Astarte of the Syrians : Venus Queen 
Ere Aphrodite was. In silver sheen 

Her twofold girdle clasps the infinite boon 

Of bliss whereof the heaven and earth commune : 
And from her neck's inclining flower-stem lean 
Love-freighted lips and absolute eyes that wean 

The pulse of hearts to the spheres' dominant tune, 

Torch-bearing, her sweet ministers compel 
All thrones of light beyond the sky and sea 
The witnesses of Beauty's face to be : 

That face, of Love's all-penetrative spell 

\mulet, talisman, and oracle, — 
Betwixt the sun and moon a mystery. 



280 SONNETS. 



PROSERPINA. 

(PER UN QUADRO.) 

LuNGi e la luce che in sii questo muro 

Rifrange appena, un breve istante scorta 

Del rio palazzo alia soprana porta. 
Lungi quel fiori d'Enna, O lido oscuro, 
Dal frutto tuo fatal che omai m'e duro. 

Lungi quel cielo dal tartareo manto 

Che qui mi cuopre : e lungi ahi lungi ahi quanto 
Le notti che saran dai di che furo. 

Lungi da me mi sento ; e ognor sognando 
Cerco e ricerco, e resto ascoltatrice ; 
E qualche cuore a qualche anima dice, 
(Di cui mi giunge il suon da quando in quando, 
Continuamente insieme sospirando,) — 
" Oime per te, Proserpina infelice I '* 



SONNETS, 281 



PROSERPINA. 

(FOR A PICTURE.) 

Afar away the light that brings cold cheer 
Unto this wall, — one instant and no more 
Admitted at my distant palace-door. 

Afar the flowers of Enna from this drear 

Dire fruit, which, tasted once, must thrall me here. 
Afar those skies from this Tartarean gray 
That chills me : and afar, how far away, 

The nights that shall be from the days that were. 

Afar from mine own self I seem, and wing 
Strange ways in thought, and listen for a sign : 
And still some heart unto some soul doth pine, 

(Whose sounds mine inner sense is fain to bring, 

Continually together murmuring,) — 

" Woe 's me for thee, unhappy Proserpine I " 



282 SONNETS. 



LA BELLA MANO. 

(PER UN QUADRO.) 

O BELLA Mano, che ti lavi e piaci 
In quel medesmo tuo puro elemento 
Donde la Dea dell' amoroso awento 

Nacque, (e dall' onda s'infuocar le faci 

Di mille inispegnibili fomaci) : — 
Come a Venere a te I'oro e I'argento 
Offron gli Amori ; e ognun riguarda attento 

La bocca che sorride e te che taci. 

In dolce modo dove onor t' invii 
Vattene adoma, e porta insiem fra tante 
Di Venere e di vergine sembiante ; 
Umilemente in luoghi onesti e pii 
Bianca e soave ognora ; infin che sii, 
O Mano, mansueta in man d'amante. 



SONNETS. 283 

LA BELLA MANO. 

(FOR A PICTURE.) 

O LOVELY hand, that thy sweet self dost lave 
In that thy pure and proper element, 
Whence erst the Lady of Love's high advent 

Was bom, and endless fires sprang from the wave : — 

Even as her Loves to her their offerings gave, 
For thee the jewelled gifts they bear j while each 
Looks to those lips, of music-measured speech 

The fount, and of more bliss than man may crave. 

In royal wise ring-girt and bracelet-spann'd, 
A flower of Venus' own virginity. 

Go shine among thy sisterly sweet band ; 
In maiden-minded converse delicately 
Evermore white and soft ; until thou be, 

O hand ! heart-handsel'd in a lover's hand. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 
(1886.) 



AT THE SUNRISE IN IS4S. 287 



AT THE SUNRISE IN 1848. 

God said, Let there be light ! and there was light. 

Then heard we sounds as though the Earth did sing 

And the Earth's angel cried upon the wing : 
We saw priests fall together and turn white : 
And covered in the dust from the sun's sight 

A king was spied, and yet another king. 

We said : " The round world keeps its balancing ; 
On this globe, they and we are opposite, — 
If it is day with us, with them 't is night. 

Still, Man, in thy just pride, remember this : 

Thou hadst not made that thy sons' sons shall ask 
What the word king may mean in their day's task, 

But for the light that led : and if hght is, 
It is because God said, Let there be light." 



288 AUTUMN SONG. 



AUTUMN SONG. 

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 
How the heart feels a languid grief 

Laid on it for a covering ; 

And how sleep seems a goodly thing 
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf ? 

And how the swift beat of the brain 

Falters because it is in vain, 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf 
Knowest thou not ? and how the chief 

Of joys seems — not to suffer pain ? 

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf 
Bound up at length for harvesting, 
And how death seems a comely thing 
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? 



THE LADY'S LAMENT. 289 



THE LADY'S LAMENT. 

Never happy any more ! 
Ay, turn the saying o'er and o'er, 
It says but what it said before, 
And heart and life are just as sore. 
The wet leaves blow aslant the floor 
In the rain through the open door. 
No, no more. 

Never happy any more ! 
The eyes are weary and give o'er, 
But still the soul weeps as before. 
And always must each one deplore 
Each once, nor bear what others bore ? 
This is now as it was of yore. 
No, no more. 

Never happy any more ! 
Is it not but a sorry lore 

That says, "Take strength, the worst is o'er"? 
Shall the stars seem as heretofore ? 
The day wears on more and more — 
While I was weeping the day wore. 
No, no more. 



290 



THE LADY'S LAMENT. 

Never happy any more ! 
In the cold behind the door 
That was the dial striking four : 
One for joy the past hours bore, 
Two for hope and will cast o'er, 
One for the naked dark before. 
No, no more. 

Never happy any more ! 
Put the light out, shut the door, 
Sweep the wet leaves from the floor. 
Even thus Fate's hand has swept her floor, 
Even thus Love's hand has shut the door 
Through which his warm feet passed of yore. 
Shall it be opened any more ? 
No, no, no more. 



A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM. 29 1 



A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM. 



LONDON TO FOLKESTONE. 

A CONSTANT keeping-past of shaken trees, 
And a bewildered glitter of loose road ; 
Banks of bright growth, with single blades atop 
Against white sky : and wires — a constant cham ■ 
That seem to draw the clouds along with them 
( Things which one stoops against the light to see 
Through the low window ; shaking by at rest, 
Or fierce like water as the swiftness grows ) : 
And, seen through fences or a bridge far off, 
Trees that in moving keep their intervals 
Still one 'twixt bar and bar ; and then at times 
Long reaches of green level, where one cow. 
Feeding among her fellows that feed on, 
Lifts her slow neck, and gazes for the sound. 

Fields mown in ridges ; and close garden-crops 
Of the earth's increase ; and a constant sky 



292 A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM, 

Still with clear trees that let you see the wind ; 
And snatches of the engine-smoke, by fits 
Tossed to the wind against the landscape, where 
Rooks stooping heave their wings upon the day. 



Brick walls we pass between, passed so at once 
That for the suddenness I cannot know 
Or what, or where begun, or where at end. 
Sometimes a station in gray quiet ; whence. 
With a short gathered champing of pent sound, 
We are let out upon the air again. 
Pauses of water soon, at intervals, 
That has the sky in it ; — the reflexes 
O' the trees move towards the bank as we go by, 
Leaving the water's surface plain. I now 
Lie back and close my eyes a space ; for they 
Smart from the open forwardness of thought 
Fronting the wind. 



I did not scribble more, 
Be certain, after this ; but yawned and read, 
And nearly dozed a little, I beheve ; 
Till, stretching up against the carriage-back, 
I was roused altogether, and looked out 
To where the pale sea brooded murmuring. 



A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM, 293 



BOULOGNE TO AMIENS AND PARIS. 

Strong extreme speed, that the brain hurries with, 
Farther than trees and hedges and green grass 
Whitened by distance, — farther than small pools 
Held among fields and gardens, farther than 
Haystacks and windmill- sails, and roofs and herds, — 
The sea's last margin ceases at the sun. 

The sea has left us, but the sun remains. 
Sometimes the country spreads aloof in tracts 
Smooth from the harvest ; sometimes sky and land 
Are shut from the square space the window leaves 
By a dense crowd of trees, stem behind stem 
passing across each other as we pass : 
Sometimes tall poplar-wands stand white, their heads 
Outmeasuring the distant hills. Sometimes 
The ground has a deep greenness ; sometimes brown 
In stubble ; and sometimes no ground at all, 
For the close strength of crops that stand unreaped. 
The water-plots are sometimes all the sun's, — 
Sometimes quite green through shadows filling them, 
Or islanded with growths of reeds, — or else 
Masked in gray dust like the wide face o' the fields. 



294 ^ '^^^P ^O PARIS AND BELGIUM. 

And still the swiftness lasts ; that to our speed 
The trees seem shaken like a press of spears. 



There is some count of us ; folks travelling capped, 
Priesthood, and lank hard-featured soldiery, 
Females (no women), blouses. Hunt, and I. 



We are delayed at Amiens. The steam 
Snorts, chafes, and bridles like three hundred horse, 
And flings its dusky mane upon the air. 
Our company is thinned, and lamps a-hght. 
But still there are the folks in traveUing-caps, 
No priesthood now, but always soldiery, 
And babies to make up for show in noise ; 
Females (no women), blouses, Hunt, and I. 



Our windows at one side are shut for warmth ; 
Upon the other side a leaden sky, 
Hung in blank glare, makes all the country dim, 
Which too seems bald and meagre, — be it truth, 
Or of the waxing darkness. Here and there 
The shade takes light, where in thin patches stand 
The unstirred dregs of water. 



A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM, 295 



ni. 



THE PARIS RAILWAY-STATION. 

In France (to baffle thieves and murderers) 
A journey takes two days of passport work 
At least. The plan 's sometimes a tedious one, 
But bears its fruit. Because, the other day 
In passing by the Morgue we saw a man 
(The thing is common, and we never should 
Have known of it, only we passed that way) 
Who had been stabbed and tumbled in the Seine, 
Where he had stayed some days. The face was black, 
And, Hke a negro's, swollen ; all the flesh 
Had furred, and broken into a green mould. 

Now, very likely, he who did the job 
Was standing among those who stood with us 
To look upon the corpse. You fancy him — 
Smoking an early pipe, and watching, as 
An artist, the effect of his last work. 
This always, if it had not struck him that 
'T were best to leave while yet the body took 
Its crust of rot beneath the Seine. It may ; 
But if it did not, he can now remain 



296 A TRIP TO PARTS AND BELGIUM. 

Without much fear. Only, if he should want 

To travel, and have not his passport yet 

(Deep dogs these French police !), he may be caught. 

Therefore, you see (lest, being murderers, 
We should not have the sense to go before 
The thing were known, or to stay afterwards), 
There is good reason why — having resolved 
To start for Belgium — we were kept three days 
To learn about the passports first, then do 
As we had learned. This notwithstanding, in 
The fulness of the time 't is come to pass. 



IV. 

REACHING BRUSSELS. 

There is small change of country ; but the sun 
Is out, and it seems shame this were not said. 
For upon all the grass the warmth has caught, 
And betwixt distant whitened poplar-stems 
Makes greener darkness, and in dells of trees 
Shows spaces of a verdure that was hid ; 
And the sky has its blue floated with white, 
And crossed with falls of the sun's glory aslant 
To lay upon the waters of the world ; 



A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM. 297 

And from the road men stand with shaded eyes 
To look ; and flowers in gardens have grown strong ; 
And our own shadows here within the coach 
Are brighter ; and all color has more bloom. 

So, after the sore torments of the route, — 
Toothache, and headache, and the ache of wind, 
And huddled sleep and smarting wakefulness, 
And night and day, and hunger sick at food, 
And twenty-fold relays, and packages 
To be unlocked and passports to be found, 
And heavy well-kept landscape, — we were glad 
Because we entered Brussels in the sun. 



V. 



ANTWERP TO GHENT. 

We are upon the Scheldt. We know we move 
Because there is a floating at our eyes 
Whatso they seek ; and because all the things 
Which on our outset were distinct and large 
Are smaller and much weaker and quite gray, 
And at last gone from us. No motion else. 

We are upon the road. The thin swift moon 
Runs with the running clouds that <ire the sky, 



298 ^ I'RIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM. 

And with the running water runs — at whiles 
Weak 'neath the film and heavy growth of reeds. 
The country swims with motion. Time itself 
Is consciously beside us, and perceived. 
Our speed is such the sparks our engine leaves 
Are burning after the whole train has passed. 
The darkness is a tumult. We tear on, 
The roll behind us and the cry before, 
Constantly, in a lull of intense speed 
And thunder. Any other sound is known 
Merely by sight. The shrubs, the trees your eye 
Scans for their growth, are far along in haze. 
The sky has lost its clouds, and lies away 
Oppressively at calm ; the moon has failed ; 
Our speed has set the wind against us. Now 
Our engine's heat is fiercer, and flings up 
Great glares alongside. Wind and steam and speed 
And clamor and the night. We are in Ghent. 



STAIRCASE OF NOTRE DAME, PARIS. 299 



THE STAIRCASE OF NOTRE DAME, PARIS. 

As one who, groping in a narrow stair, 

Hath a strong sound of bells upon his ears, 
Which, being at a distance off, appears 

Quite close to him because of the pent air, — 

So with this France. She stumbles file and square, 
DarkHng and without space for breath : each one 
Who hears the thunder says, " It shall anon 

Be in among her ranks to scatter her." 

This may be ; and it may be that the storm 
Is spent in rain upon the unscathed seas, 
Or wasteth other countries ere it die : 
Till she — having cHmbed always through the swarm 
Of darkness and of hurtling sound, — from these 
Shall step forth on the light in a still sky. 



300 NEAR BRUSSELS.— A HALF-WAY PAUSE, 



NEAR BRUSSELS. —A HALF-WAY PAUSE. 

The turn of noontide has begun ; 

In the weak breeze the sunshine yields. 

There is a bell upon the fields ; 
On the long hedgerow's tangled run 

A low white cottage intervenes : 

Against the wall a blind man leans, 
And sways his face to have the sun. 

Our horses' hoofs stir in the road, 
Quiet and sharp. Light hath a song 
Whose silence, being heard, seems long. 

The point of noon maketh abode. 

And will not be at once gone through. 
The sky's deep color saddens you, 

And the heat weighs a dreamy load. 



ANTWERP AND BRUGES. 30 1 



ANTWERP AND BRUGES. 

I CLIMBED the Stair in Antwerp church, 
What time the circling thews of sound 
At sunset seem to heave it round. 
Far up, the carillon did search 
The wind, and the birds came to perch 
Far under, where the gables wound. 



In Antwerp harbor on the Scheldt 
I stood along, a certain space 
Of night. The mist was near my face ; 

Deep on, the flow was heard and felt. 

The carillon kept pause, and dwelt 
In music through the silent place. 

John Memmeling and John van Eyck 
Hold state at Bruges. In sore shame 
I scanned the works that keep their nama 
The carillon, which then did strike 
Mine ears, was heard of theirs alike : 
It set me closer unto them. 



302 



ANTWERP AND BRUGES. 

I climbed at Bruges all the flight 
The belfry has of ancient stone. 
For leagues I saw the east wind blown ; 

The earth was gray, the sky was white. 

I stood so near upon the height 
That my flesh felt the carillon. 



ON LEA VING BRUGES. 303 



ON LEAVING BRUGES. 

The city's steeple-towers remove away, 
Each singly ; as each vain infatuate Faith 
Leaves God in heaven, and passes. A mere breath 

Each soon appears, so far. Yet that which lay 

The first is now scarce further or more gray 
Than the last is. Now all are wholly gone. 
The sunless sky has not once had the sun 

Since the first weak beginning of the day. 

The air falls back as the wind finishes, 

And the clouds stagnate. On the water's face 
The current breathes along, but is not stirred. 
There is no branch that thrills with any bird. 
Winter is to possess the earth a space. 
And have its will upon the extreme seas. 



304 ^^^ ecclesije:, vox christi. 



vox ECCLESI^, vox CHRISTI. 

I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of 
God, and for the testimony which they held ; and they cried with a loud 
voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost Thou not judge and 
avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth ? — Rev. vi. 9, 10. 

Not 'neath the altar only, — yet, in sooth, 

There more than elsewhere, — is the cry, '* How long ? '* 
The right sown there hath still borne fruit in wrong, — 

The wrong waxed fourfold. Thence (in hate of truth), 

O'er weapons blessed for carnage, to fierce youth 
From evil age the word hath hissed along : 
*' Ye are the Lord's : go forth, destroy, be strong ! 

Christ's Church absolves ye from Christ's law of ruth." 

Therefore the wine-cup at the altar is 

As Christ's own blood indeed, and as the blood 
Of Christ's elect, at divers seasons spilt 
On the altar-stone, that to man's church, for this. 
Shall prove a stone of stumbling, — whence it stood 
To be rent up ere the true Church be built 



THE MIRROR. 305 



THE MIRROR. 

She knew it not, — most perfect pain 
To learn : this too she knew not. Strife 
For me, calm hers, as from the first. 
'T was but another bubble burst 
Upon the curdling draught of life, — 
My silent patience mine again. 

As who, of forms that crowd unknown 
Within a distant mirror's shade, 

Deems such an one himself, and makes 
Some sign ; but when the image shakes 
No whit, he finds his thought betray'd, 
And must seek elsewhere for his own. 



3o6 



DURING MUSIC. 



DURING MUSIC. 

Oh cool unto the sense of pain 

That last night's sleep could not destroy ! 

Oh warm unto the sense of joy, 
That dreams its life within the brain ! 

What though I lean o'er thee to scan 
The written music cramped and stiff, 
'T is dark to me as hieroglyph 

On those weird bulks Egyptian. 

But as from those, dumb now and strange, 
A glory wanders on the earth. 
Even so thy tones can call a birth 

From these, to shake my soul with change. 

Oh swift, as in melodious haste 

Float o'er the keys thy fingers small ; 
Oh soft, as is the rise and fall 

Which stirs that shade within thy breast. 



ON THE SITE OF A MULBERRY-TREE, ^q'j 



ON THE SITE OF A MULBERRY-TREE; 

Planted by Wm. Shakspeare; felled by the Rev. F. Gastrell. 

This tree, here fall'n, no common birth or death 
Shared with its kind. The world's enfranchised son, 
Who found the trees of Life and Knowledge one, 

Here set it, frailer than his laurel-wreath. 

Shall not the wretch whose hand it fell beneath 
Rank also singly — the supreme unhung ? 
Lo ! Sheppard, Turpin, pleading with black tongue 

This viler thief s unsuffocated breath ! 

We '11 search thy glossary, Shakspeare ! whence almost, 
And whence alone, some name shall be reveal'd 
For this deaf drudge, to whom no length of ears 
Sufficed to catch the music of the spheres ; 
Whose soul is carrion now, — too mean to yield 
Some Starveling's ninth allotment of a ghost. 



3o8 ON CERTAIN ELIZABETHAN REVIVALS. 



ON CERTAIN ELIZABETHAN REVIVALS. 

O RUFF-EMBASTiONED, vast Elizabeth, 

Bush to these bushel-bellied casks of wine, 
Home-growth, 't is true, but rank as turpentine — 

What would we with such skittle-plays at death ? 

Say, must we watch these brawlers' brandished lathe, 
Or to their reeking wit our ears incline. 
Because all Castaly flowed crystalline 

In gentle Shakspeare's modulated breath? 

What ! must our drama with the rat-pit vie. 
Nor the scene close while one is left to kill ? 
Shall this be poetry ? And thou — thou man 
Of blood, thou cannibalic Caliban, 
What shall be said of thee ? A poet ? — Fie ! 
" An honorable murderer, if you will." 



ENGLISH MA Y, 309 



ENGLISH MAY. 

Would God your health were as this month of May 
Should be, were this not England, — and your face 
Abroad, to give the gracious sunshine grace 

And laugh beneath the budding hawthorn- spray. 

But here the hedgerows pine from green to gray 
While yet May's lyre is tuning, and her song 

Is weak in shade that should in sun be strong ; 

And your pulse springs not to so faint a lay. 

If in my life be breath of Italy, 

Would God that I might yield it all to you ! 

So, when such grafted warmth had burgeoned through 
The languor of your Maytime's hawthorn-tree, 
My spirit at rest should walk unseen and see 

The garland of your beauty bloom anew. 



310 DAWN ON THE NIGHT-JOURNEY. 



DAWN ON THE NIGHT-JOURNEY. 

Till dawn the wind drove round me. It is past 
And still, and leaves the air to lisp of bird, 
And to the quiet that is almost heard 

Of the new-risen day, as yet bound fast 

In the first warmth of sunrise. When the last 
Of the sun's hours to-day shall be fulfilled, 
There shall another breath of time be stilled 

For me, which now is to my senses cast 
As much beyond me as eternity. 

Unknown, kept secret. On the new-born air 

The moth quivers in silence. It is vast, 
Yea, even beyond the hills upon the sea, 

The day whose end shall give this hour as sheer 

As chaos to the irrevocable Past. 



TO PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 311 



TO PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON, INCITING 
ME TO POETIC WORK. 

Sweet Poet, thou of whom these years that roll 
Must one day yet the burdened birthright learn, 
And by the darkness of thine eyes discern 

How piercing was the sight within thy soul,— 

Gifted apart, thou goest to the great goal, 
A cloud-bound radiant spirit, strong to earn. 
Light-reft, that prize for which fond myriads yearn 

Vainly light-blest, — the Seer's aureole. 

And doth thine ear, divinely .owered to catch 
All spheral sounds in thy song blent so well. 
Still hearken for my voice's slumbering speU 
With wistful love? Ah ! let the Muse now snatch 
My wreath for thy young brows, and bend to watch 
Thy veiled transfiguring sense's miracle. 



312 RALEIGH'S CELL IN THE TOWER, 



RALEIGH'S CELL IN THE TOWER. 

Here writ was the World's History by his hand 
Whose steps knew all the earth, albeit his world 
In these few piteous paces then was furl'd. 

Here daily, hourly, have his proud feet spann'd 

This smaller speck than the receding land 

Had ever shown his ships, what time he hurl'd 
Abroad o'er new-found regions spiced and pearl'd 

His country's high dominion and command. 

Here dwelt two spheres. The vast terrestrial zone 
His spirit traversed ; and that spirit was 
Itself the zone celestial, round whose birth 
The planets played within the zodiac's girth ; 
Till hence, through unjust death unfeared, did pass 
His spirit to the only land unknown. 



FOR AN ANNUNCIATION. 313 



FOR 

AN ANNUNCIATION, 

EARLY GERMAN. 

The lilies stand before her like a screen 

Through which, upon this warm and solemn day, 
God surely hears. For there she kneels to pray 

Who wafts our prayers to God, — Mary the Queen. 

She was Faith's Present, parting what had been 
From what began with her, and is for aye. 
On either hand God's twofold system lay : 

With meek bowed face a Virgin prayed between. 

So prays she, and the Dove flies in to her, 
And she has turned. At the low porch is one 
Who looks as though deep awe made him to smile. 

Heavy with heat, the plants yield shadow there ; 
The loud flies cross each other in the sun ; 
And the aisled pillars meet the poplar-aisle. 



314 A VIRGIN AND CHILD. 



FOR 

A VIRGIN AND CHILD. 

BY HANS MEMMELINCK. 

{In the Academy of Bruges,') 

Mystery : God, man's life, bom into man 
Of woman. There abideth on her brow 
The ended pang of knowledge, the which now 

Is calm assured. Since first her task began 

She hath known all. What more of anguish than 
Endurance oft hath lived through, the whole space 
Through night till day, passed weak upon her face 

While the heard lapse of darkness slowly ran ? 

All hath been told her touching her dear Son, 
And all shall be accomplished. Where He sits 
Even now, a babe. He holds the symbol fruit 
Perfect and chosen. Until God permits. 
His soul's elect still have the absolute 
Harsh nether darkness, and make painful moan. 



MARRIAGE OF SAINT CATHERINE. 315 



FOR 

A MARRIAGE OF SAINT CATHERINE. 

BY THE SAME. 

{In the Hospital of St. John at Bruges.) 

Mystery : Catherine the bride of Christ. 
She kneels, and on her hand the holy Child 
Now sets the ring. Her life is hushed and mild, 

Laid in God's knowledge, — ever unenticed 

From God, and in the end thus fitly priced. 
Awe, and the music that is near her, wrought 
Of angels, have possessed her eyes in thought : 

Her utter joy is hers, and hath sufficed. 

There is a pause while Mary Virgin turns 

The leaf, and reads. With eyes on the spread book. 
That damsel at her knees reads after her. 
John whom He loved, and John His harbinger, 
Listen and watch. Whereon soe'er thou look, 
The light is starred in gems and the gold burns. 



3i6 GIOVENTU E SIGNORIA, 



GIOVENTU E SIGNORIA. 

E GioviNE il signore, 
Ed ama molte cose, — 
I canti, le rose, 

La forza e I'amore. 

Quel che piu vuole 

Ancor non osa : 
Ahi piu che il sole, 

Piu ch* ogni rosa, 

La cara cosa. 
Donna a gioire. 

E giovine il signore, 
Ed ama quelle cose 
Che ardor dispose 

In cuore all' amore. 

Bella fanciulla, 
Guardalo in viso ; 

Non mancar nulla. 
Motto o sorriso ; 
Ma viso a viso 

Guarda a gradire. 

E giovine il signore, 
Ed ama tutte cose, 
Vezzose, giojose, 

Tenenti all' amore. 



VERSES. 317 



MICHAEL SCOTT'S WOOING. 
{For a Drawing.^ 

Rose-sheathed beside the rosebud tongue 
Lurks the young adder's tooth ; 
Milk-mild from new-born hemlock-bluth 

The earliest drops are wrung : 

And sweet the flower of his first youth 

When Michael Scott was young. 



MNEMOSYNE. 

{For a Picture^ 

Thou fill'st from the winged chalice of the soul 
Thy lamp, O Memory, fire-winged to its goal. 



LA RICORDANZA. 

Maggior dolore e ben la Ricordanza, 
O neir amaro inferno amena stanza? 



3l8 VERSES, 



MEMORY. 



Is Memory most of miseries miserable, 
Or the one flower of ease in bitterest hell ? 



Con manto d'oro, collana, ed anelli, 

Le piace aver con quelli 
Non altro che una rosa ai suoi capelli. 



Robe d'or, mais rien ne veut 
Qu'une rose k ses cheveux. 



With golden mantle, rings, and necklace fair, 

It likes her best to wear 
Only a rose within her golden hair. 



A GOLDEN robe, yet will she wear 
Only a rose in her golden hair. 



VERSES. 319 



BARCAROLA. 

Per carita, 

Mostxami amore : 

Mi punge il cuore, 
Ma non si sa 

Dove e amore. 
Che mi fa 
La bella eta, 
Se non si sa 
Come amera? 

Ahi me solingo ! 

II cuor mi stringo ! 

Non pill ramingo, 
Per carita ! 

Per carita, 

Mostrami il cielo : 
Tutto e un velo, 

E non si sa 
Dove e il cielo. 

Se si sta 

Cosi col^, 



320 



VERSES. 

Non si sa 
Se non si va. 

Ahi me lontano ! 

Tutto e in vano ! 

Prendimi-in mano, 
Per carita ! 



BARCAROLA. 

Oltre tomba 
Qualche cosa? 
E che ne did? 
Saremo felici? 
Terra mai posa, 
E mar rimbomba. 



BAMBINO FASCIATO. 

A PiPPO Pipistrello 
Farfalla la fanciulla : 

'* O vedi quanto e bello 
Ridendo in questa culla I 

E noi r abbiamo fatto, 

Noi due insiem d 'un tratto, 
E senza noi fia nulla." 



VERSES, 321 



THOM^ FIDES. 

" DiGiTUM tuum, Thoma, 
Infer, et vide manus ! 
Manum tuam, Thoma, 
AfFer, et mitte in latus." 

" Dominus et Deus, 
Deus," dixit, 

" Et Dominus mens." 

«' Quia me vidisti, 
Thoma, credidisti. 
Beati qui non viderunt, 
Thoma, et crediderunt." 

" Dominus et Deus, 
Deus," dixit, 

'* Et Dominus mens.'* 



322 VERSICLES AND FRAGMENTS. 



THE ORCHARD-PIT. 

Piled deep below the screening apple-branch 

They lie with bitter apples in their hands : 
And some are only ancient bones that blanch, 
And some had ships that last year's wind did launch; 
And some were yesterday the lords of lands. 

In the soft dell, among the apple-trees. 
High up above the hidden pit she stands, 

And there forever sings, w^o g^^v^e to these, 

That lie below, her magic nour of ease. 

And those her apples holden in their hands. 

This in my dreams is shown me ; and her hair 

Crosses my lips and draws my burning breath ; 
Her song spreads golden wings upon the air. 
Life's eyes are gleaming from her forehead fair. 
And from her breasts the ravishing eyes of Death, 

Men say to me that sleep hath many dreams, 

Yet I knew never but this dream alone : 
There, from a dried-up channel, once the stream's, 



VERSICLES AND FRAGMENTS. 323 

The glen slopes up ; even such in sleep it seems 
As to my waking sight the place well known. 

My love I call her, and she loves me well : 
But I love her as in the maelstrom's cup 
The whirled stone loves the leaf inseparable 
That clings to it round all the circling swell, 
And that the same last eddy swallows up. 



TO ART. 
I LOVED thee ere I loved a woman. Love. 



ON BURNS. 

In whomsoe'er, since Poesy began, 
A Poet most of all men we may scan. 
Burns of all poets is the most a Man. 



FIN DI MAGGIO. 

Oh, May sits crowned with hawthorn-flower, 
And is Love's month, they say j 

And Love's the fruit that is ripened best 
By ladies' eyes in May. 



324 VERSICLES AND FRAGMENTS. 



And the Sibyl, you know. I saw her with my own eyes at Cumae, 
hanging in a jar; and, when the boys asked her, "What would you, 
Sibyl?" she answered, "I would die." — Petronius. 

" I SAW the Sibyl at Cumae," 

One said, " with mine own eye. 
She hung in a cage and read her rune 

To all the passers-by. 
Said the boys, 'What wouldst thou, Sibyl? ' 

She answered, * I would die.' " 



As balmy as the breath of her you love 

When deep between her breasts it comes to you. 



*' Was it a friend or foe that spread these lies? " 
" Nay, who but infants question in such wise ? 
'T was one of my most intimate enemies." 



At her step the water-hen 
Springs from her nook, and skimming the clear stream. 
Ripples its waters in a sinuous curve, 
And dives again in safety. 



VERSICLES AND FRAGMENTS, 325 

Would God I knew there were a God to thank 
When thanks rise in me 1 



I SHUT myself in with my soul, 
And the shapes come eddying forth. 



If I could die like the British Queen 

Who faced the Roman war, 
Or hang in a cage for my country's sake 

Like Black Bess of Dunbar ! 



She bound her green sleeve on my helm, 
Sweet pledge of love's sweet meed : 

Warm was her bared arm round my neck 
As well she bade me speed ; 

And her kiss clings still between my lips, 
Heart's beat and strength at need. 



Where is the man whose soul has never waked 
To sudden pity of the poor torn past? 



326 VERSICLES AND FRAGMENTS, 

As much as in a hundred years, she 's dead 
Yet is to-day the day on which she died. 



Who shall say what is said in me, 

With all that I might have been dead in me ? 



NOTES BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI. 



BUssetJ ©am0|£l anti ofter poms. 

Page 47. ! 

The Staff and Scrip. — My brother found the story of this 
noem in the Gesta Romanorum, and schemed out the poem m bep- 
tember, 1849. Its actual composition seems to me to have been 
somewhat later, perhaps towards 1853. 

Page 128. 

The Portrait. — In printed notices of my brother's poems I 
have often seen the supposition advanced that this poem was writ- 
ten after the death of his wife, in relation to some portrait ne had 
painted of her during her lifetime. The supposition is very natural, 
yet not correct. The poem was in fact an extremely early one 
Ld purely imaginary, - perhaps, in the first draft of it, as early as 
1847 ; it was afterwards considerably revised. 

Page 134- 

Sister Helen. -This poem was first published about 1853 in 
the Diisseldorf Annual, at the invitation of the ^ditressMis 
Howitt. It had been written a couple of years or so before, it 
reappeared with some improvements in the volume I oems of i^.o, 
and again in the partly modified re-issue of that volume m ibbi. 
The sfanzas regarding the bride of Keith of Ewern are additions 
proper to this ultimate form of the poem. 



328 NOTES BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI. 

Page 182. 

Wellington's Funeral. — In one of my brother's jotting- 
books I find the following entry : " When printing in 1870 I 
omitted the piece on Wellington's Funeral as referring to so recent 
a date ; but year by year such themes become more dateless, and 
rank only with immortal things." 

Page 188. 

The Bride's Prelude.— A good deal of this uncompleted poem 
was written at a very early date, say 1847-49. This portion may 
have extended up to about p. 52, " Not the guilt only made the 
shame, etc. ; and the poem was then named Bride-chamber Talk. 
The date of the remainder is less definite to me, —perhaps towards 
1859-60 for the most part ; and in the earlier portion considerable 
changes in diction, etc. were introduced about the same time. My 
brother had practically laid the poem aside for many years before 
his death, and would probably never have completed it, even in a 
longer term of life. I find a memorandum in his handwriting of 
the contemplated conclusion of the poem, written perhaps towards 
1878 : " Urscelyn has become celebrated as a soldier of fortune 
selling his sword to the highest bidder; and in this character re- 
ports reach Aloyse and her family respecting him. Aloyse now 
becomes enamoured of a young knight who loves her deeply ; this 
leads, after fears and hesitations, to her confessing to him the stain 
on her life ; he still remains devoted to her. Urscelyn now reap- 
pears ; his influence as a soldier renders a lasting bond with him 
desirable to the brothers of Aloyse, much as they hate him ; and he, 
on his side, is bent on assuming an important position in the fam- 
ily to which he as yet only half belongs. He therefore offers mar- 
riage to Aloyse, supported by the will of her brothers, who moreover 
are well aware of the blot they have to efface, which would thus dis- 
appear. At a tournament Urscelyn succeeds in treacherously slay- 
ing the knight to whom Aloyse has betrothed herself ; and this death 
IS followed m due course by the bridal, to which the poem relates. 
It winds up with the description of the last preparations preceding 
the bridal procession. Amelotte would draw attention to the pass- 
ing of the time ; Aloyse then says : ' There is much now that you 
remember, — how we heard that Urscelyn had become a soldier of 
fortune, and how he returned here, etc. You must also remember 

T ij u^^^'^^ °^ ^^^^ ^'^^"S ^"^g^* ^^ the tourney.' Amelotte 
should then describe the event, and say how well she remembers 
Urscelyn's bitter grief at the mischance. Aloyse would then tell 
her how she herself was betrothed secretly to the young knight, and 



NOTES BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTL 329 

how Urscelyn slew him intentionally. As the bridal procession ap- 
pears, perhaps it might become apparent that the brothers mean 
to kill Urscelyn when he has married her." 

Page 269. 

A Young Fir-Wood. — A MS. of these verses is marked by 
my brother, "Between Ightham and Sevenoaks, November, 1850." 

Page 281. 

Mary's Girlhood. — The picture to which these sonnets relate 
was the first oil-painting, 1848-49, completed by my brother. The 
c.-ncluding Hnes of Sonnet i, " She woke in her white bed," etc., 
have a more direct connection, however, with his second picture, 
The Anmmciation (or Ecce Ancilla Do?m7ii), now in the National 
Gallery. Sonnet 2 was inscribed by my brother on the frame of his 
first picture. He never published it otherwise; but it has been 
given in Mr. Sharp's book, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, etc. 

Page 289. 

On Refusal of Aid betw^een Nations. — This sonnet was 
written in 1849, or perhaps 1848. It refers to the apathy with 
which other countries witnessed the national struggles of Italy and 
Hungary against Austria. 



BallatJS anti Bonnets. 

Page 3. 
Rose Mary. — This poem was written in the early autumn of 
1S71 The Beryl-Son^s are a later addition, say 1879. The very 
general opinion has been that they were better away, and I cannot 
but a^ree with it. I have heard my brother say that he wrote them 
to show that he was not incapable of the daring rhymmg and rhyth- 
mical exploits of some other poets. As to this pomt readers must 
iudcre It is at anv rate true that in making the word 13eryl tlie 
pivot of his experiment, a word to which there are the fewest pos- 
sil)le rhymes, my brother weighted himself heavily. 

Page 116. 

The House of Life: Prefatorv Note. — This note appeared in 
the volume Ballads and So7tnets, 1S81. The point which it empha- 
sizes is that a series entitled The Honse of Life had been published 
in the volume Poems of 1870, consisting at that time partly of 



330 



NOTES BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI. 



sonnets and partly of other compositions ; whereas in the volume 
Ballads and Sonnets the series thus entitled consisted solely of son- 
nets, and was in other respects not a little different. 

Page 119. 

The House of Life. — The dates of the various sonnets which 
make up this series are extremely various. The earliest of them 
may date in 1848, or even a year or so preceding. The latest come 
close before, or even in, 1881, in the autumn of which year the series 
was published in the same form which it now bears. One posi- 
tive line of demarcation between the various sonnets separates those 
which appeared in the volume Poems, published in the spring of 
1870, from any others. I am far from having a clear idea or defi- 
nite information as to the true dates of the sonnets. But I think 
the reader is entitled to some sort of guidance regarding them, form- 
ing as they do so extremely important a constituent in my brother's 
poetical and intellectual record; and therefore, keeping in view the 
line of demarcation above referred to, I append here a rough sug- 
gestion of what may have been their sequence in point of date. All 
the items which are here entered "between 1848 and 1869" ap- 
peared in the Poems of 1870, except the second and third sonnets 
(Numbers 75 and 76) of Old and New Art. 

Between 1848 and 1869. 



SONNETS 


SONNETS 


NUMBERED 


NUMBERED 


90. 


Retro me, Sathana. 


84. 


Farewell to the Glen. 


71- 


73. The Choice. 


95- 


The Vase of Life. 


74-' 


76. Old and New Art. 


6. 


The Kiss. 


6^. 


Autumn Idleness. 


7« 


Supreme Surrender. 


47- 


Broken Music. 


9- 


Passion and Worship. 


65. 


Known in Vain. 


79' 


The Monochord. 


15- 


The Birth-Bond. 


98. 


He and L 


67. 


The Landmark. 


99-1 


[oo. New-bom Death. 


63- 


Inclusiveness. 


lOI. 


The One Hope. 


77- 


Soul's Beauty. 


2. 


Bridal Birth. 


78. 


Body's Beauty. 


3. 


Love's Testament. 


70. 


The' Hill Summit. 


4- 


Lovesight. 


85. 


Vain Virtues. 


10. 


The Portrait. 


86. 


Lost Days. 


II. 


The Love-Letter. 


87. 


Death's Songsters. 


16. 


A Day of Love. 


gi. 


Lost on Both Sides. 


21. 


Love-Sweetness. 


92. 


The Sun's Shame — I. 


23. 


Love's Baubles. 


97- 


A Superscription. 


25- 


Winged Hours. 


48. 


Death-in-Love. 


38. 


The Morrow's Message. 


36. 


Life-in-Love. 


39- 


Sleepless Dreams. 


37- 


The Love-Moon. 


45- 


Secret Parting. 


49- 


52. Willow- Wood. 


46. 


Parted Love. 


55. 


Still-bom Love. 


82. 


Hoarded Joy. 


68. 


A Dark Day. 


83. 


Barren Spring. 



NOTES BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTL 331 
Between 1870 and 1881. 



SONNETS 
NUMBERED 



29. 
30- 

31- 

32. 
33- 
34- 
35- 

20. 



The Moonstar. 
Last Fire. 
Her Gifts. 
Equal Troth. 
Venus Victrix. 
The Dark Glass. 
The Lamp's Shrine. 
Gracious Moonlight. 
Love Enthroned. 
Heart's Hope. 
Love's Lovers. 
The Lover's Walk. 
Youth's Antiphony. 
Youth's Spring-Tribute. 
Beauty's Pageant. 
Genius in Beauty. 
Silent Noon. 
Heart's Haven. 
Mid-Rapture. 
Heart's Compass. 
Soul-Light. 
Hope Overtaken. 



SONNETS 
NUMBERED 

Love and Hope. 
Cloud and Wmd. 
Without Her. 
Love's Fatality. 
From Dawn to Noon. 
Life the Beloved. 
Severed Selves. 
Through Death. 
Transfigured Life. 
The Heart of the Night 
Memorial Thresholds. 
Hero's Lamp. 
The Trees of the Garden. 
The Sun's Shame — 2. 
The Song Throe, 
The Soul's Sphere. 
Ardor and Memory. 
66-68. True Woman. 

69. Love's Last Gift. 

70. Introductory Sonnet. 
24. Pride of Youth. 

94. Michelangelo's Kiss. 



43- 
44. 
53. 
54- 
80. 
96. 
40. 
41. 
60. 
66, 



89. 
93- 
61. 
62. 
64. 



The Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti the work of the friend 
of his closing days, Mr. Hall Caine, shows that the author regarded 
tmlornL^eJnown in Vain, Lost Days, and The One Hope (Nos. 
SS, 65, 86, and loi), as about the best of the series. 



Pages 195, 196. 

Soul's Beauty and Body's Beauty. - These tj^o sonnets were 
written respectively for Rossetti's pictures entitled ^-.^y/a Palmifera 
Intuiith^ They might therefore, if he had not himself embodied 
?hem in The Hole of Life, have appeared appropriately m ^e se ^ 
tion of the present book named Sonnets and Verses for Rossettt s own 
Works of Art. 

Page 272. 

The Church-Porch. - This sonnet was published by my brother 
in the volume Ballads and Sonnets It was written as one of a 
brace of sonnets. He never published the second; but this is to 
be found in an article, /?a«/. Gabriel Rossetti, by Mr Gosse, printed 
fn TlucZury Magd.ine in 1882, I am rather reluctant to miss 
out that second sSnnet; but, as my brother ^F^.^\^lJ^^^J^'^^ 
unused when he gave publicity to the first, I have decided to 
conform. 



33.^ ^'OTES By WILLIAM M. ROSSETTL 

Page 280. 

Proserpina.— This sonnet, and the following one, La Bella 
Mano, might have been included in the section Sonnets and Verses 
forRossetti s own Works of Art. The fact of their being written ir 
Italian as well as English has guided me, however, to a different 

Page 287. 

At THE Sunrise in 1848. -My brother never published this 

^T A 2 '^ "^""^ °^ ^'^ ^f'^' y^^' ^^ it openly proclaims that he 
shared the aspirations and exultations of the great year of Euro- 
pean revolution, I have thought the personal interest attaching to 
oWivion '° ^^ ^^ ^"^'^^^ '^ ^° something better than final 

Page 288. 

Autumn Song. —This lyric was set to music by Mr. Dannreu- 
ther during my brother's lifetime, and was published in that form 
though not otherwise. I have therefore felt no hesitation in inclul 
ding It among his collected works. As to the next following lyric, 
??5 ^^^""7 ^ Lament, which had hitherto been wholly unpublished 
I did hesitate ; but I finally admitted it, as being a somewhat marked 
oerformance of its class. The class is the same as with the Autumn 
^ong ; each being the utterance of a dreamy or indeed morbid mood 
of desolation to which the youth of our modern generations is 



prone 

Page 291. 



A Trip jo Paris and Belgium. — In the autumn of 1840 mv 
brother undertook this trip along with Mr. Holman Hunt He 
wrote the verses mostly while actually travelling by rail, etc., and 
sent them in his letters to me. Under the above heading I have 
pieced together such portions of his verse-missives as appear to me 
worthy of preservation in the present form. Much the same obser- 
vation apphes to the two ensuing sonnets, The Staircase of 
Notre Dame, Paris, and On Leaving Bruges; and to the lyric. 
Near Brussels, a Halfway Pause. The sonnet. Place de la 
Bastille, Parts belongs to the same series ; it is the only one of the 
set which my brother published in one of his volumes [Ballads and 
^07znetsJ. The lyric Antwerp and Bruges is an altered version (as I 
find It m his own MS.) of The Carillon, which was printed \n The 



NOTES BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI, 333 



Page 304. 

Vox EccLESi^ Vox Christi. — This sonnet, hitherto unpub- 
lished, was written in 1849. My brother wrote it to serve as a pen- 
dant to a sonnet of my own composition which was published in 
The Germ, 1850, under the vague title, The Evil under the Sun 
(" How long, O Lord," etc.). That title was vamped up to appease 
the publisher's nervousness ; the sonnet being in fact written by me 
as a sorrowful commemoration of the collapse — the temporary col- 
lapse, as we now know it to have been— of various revolutionary 
movements in Europe, especially that of Hungary. My own title for 
the sonnet was, On the General Oppression of the Better by the Worse 
Cause, October, 1849. The sonnet has of late years been more than 
once republished under a more generalized title, Democracy Down- 
trodden. I mention these facts, not to thrust my own performance 
into notice, but to bring out the more clearly the precise point of 
view which marks mv brother's sonnet. 

Page 305. 

The Mirror. — Written in 1850. My brother never published 
this snatch of verse, but he had a certain liking for it, and I think 
it should now find a niche among his works. 

Page 306. 
During Music. — Written in 1851. Hitherto unpublished. 

Page 307. 

On the Site of a Mulberry-Tree, etc. — My brother had 
this sonnet printed long ago, but never published it except in the 
Academy for 15 February, 187 1, In the last line he substituted (in 
MS.) the word "starveling's " for " tailor's ; " and I remember he 
once told me that his real reason for not publishing the sonnet in 
either of his volumes was to avoid hurting the feelings of some sen- 
sitive member or members of the tailoring craft who might dislike 
the line in its original wording. This point is referred to in a letter 
addressed by my brother to Mr. Hall Caine, and published in that 
gentleman's Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 

Page 308. 

On certain Elizabethan Revivals.— This sonnet had hitherto 
appeared only in Mr. Caine's volume above mentioned. My brother 



334 



NOTES BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI. 



had offered it for the collection, Sonnets of Three Centuries, com- 
piled by Mr. Caine ; but it dropped out of that book, as being little 
in harmony with the other contributions therein by Rossetti. The 
sonnet was written many years prior to the date of either of Mr. 
Caine's volumes. 

Page 309. 

English May. — This sonnet had not hitherto been published. 
I regard it as addressed to Miss Siddal, whom my brother married 
in i860. Its date may probably have been 1854. 



Page 310. 
Dawn on the Night-Journey. — Also hitherto unpublished. 

Pagez^i. 

To Philip Bourke Marston. — This sonnet was printed in 
Mr. William Sharp's book, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, a Record and a 
Study. In line 4 he gives the word " sight." In the MS. in my own 
possession I find " light " instead ; but I incline to think that Mr. 
Sharp's version is correct. 

Page 312. 

Raleigh's Cell in the Tow^er. — This sonnet was published 
in Mr. Caine's Sonnets of Three Centuries. 



Page 313. 

For an Annunciation, Early German. — This is an early 
sonnet, hitherto unpublished, — perhaps the earliest of all the Son- 
nets on Pictures. 

Pages z-^\, Zn- 

For a Virgin and Child, by Hans Memmelinck ; and A 
Marriage of Saint Catherine, by the Same. — These son- 
nets were published in The Germ ; I have thought it, on the whole, 
better to admit them here. A few verbal alterations are made on 
MS. authority. 



NOTES BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTL 335 
Page 316. 



second. 

Page 317- 



Michael Scott's Wooing. -My brother made two or three ^H 

drawings of this subject of invention, diverse m composition He ^H 

Smplated carrying out the subject in a large picture, which was H 

never executed ; I am not certain whether a water-color of it vvas H| 

produced or not. He took some pains over the wording of the ^ 

Slustrauve verse, but never published it I think it deserves a place ^ 
here, if merely as appertaining to one of his own designs. 

Page 317. 
Mnemosyne. - This couplet was inscribed upon the frame of the 
picture entitled Mnemosyne, or the Lamp of Memory. 

Page 318. 

Robe d'or etc —This French couplet, with its English equiv- 
alent- and also the preceding Italian triplet, with the like -may 
I think, have been wdtten to%erve as motto for some picture, I 
could not say which. 

Page 319. 

Barcarola. - The two little songs thus entitled hf not hitherto 
been published ; nor yet the Bambino Fasciato, nor La Ricord- 

ANZA. 

Page 321. 

Thom^ Fides. -It is only on looking through mj brother's 
MSS th^ I have become aware of his having ventured thus into 
the realm of Latin verse. I find the little composition wri ten out 
Sore thSi once! and with alterations of diction which convince me 
JSat it r^ust be his own composition. It was intended to appear m 
a '' lyri^a^tragedy," The Doom of the Sirens, of which he wrote out 
the scheme. 



i 



336 NOTES BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI. 

Pages 322-326. 

Versicles and Fragments. — I have taken these from among 
various jottings in my brother's note-books. The first item, named 
The Orchard Fit, is all that I can find written of a poem which was 
long and seriously projected ; the argument of the poem appears 
printed now among the Prose works. Of the other items I need per- 
haps say nothing, unless it be this, — that, slight as they are, they 
appear to me worthy of preservation on one ground or another. I 
do not think that any of the Versicles and Fragments belong to my 
brother's earlier period. 



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